


volition

by Anonymous



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Bad Ending, Bottom Will Graham, Brainwashing, Captivity, Chastity Device, Child Abuse, Daddy Kink, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Forced Feminization, Gangbang, Grooming, Hannibal is Really Not A Good Person in this, Hate Crimes, Homophobia, I REPEAT: READ THE AUTHOR'S NOTES, Internalized Misogyny, M/M, Mindfuck, Misgendering, Misogyny, Multi, Pedophilia, Pseudo-Incest, Psychological Manipulation, Read the Author's Notes, Stockholm Syndrome, Top Hannibal Lecter, Transphobia, Whump, age gap, conversion therapy, like seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-02-23 07:29:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23474602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: vo·li·tion(n.)The faculty or power of using one's will.-Children have such malleable minds,Hannibal had thought.All those mirror neurons.It had been such a long time since he’d been a child. What was it like, back then? Those parts of his mind palace shimmer, indistinct and ghostly. So many things had happened since to shape him into the man he is today.What would it be like,he wondered,to control those things? To shape a life with my own hands?
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Other(s)
Comments: 68
Kudos: 241
Collections: Anonymous, Just Fuck Me Up 2020





	1. prerogative

**Author's Note:**

> I’m going to be straightforward here. The main concept of this story is that Hannibal adopts Will when he is very, very young and brainwashes him into thinking he’s a girl. Will, partway through the story, will start going by Wilhelmina, and the narration will begin to refer to them with she/her pronouns. However, I did not tag this story “Trans Character” because without Hannibal’s interference, Will wouldn't have undergone this change naturally in this universe. This is NOT meant to be a representation, whatsoever, of real trans people’s experiences. 
> 
> In fact, this story is completely incorrect. That’s why it’s fictional. For example, take [David Reimer](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/David_Reimer), who was born a boy but was reassigned female and raised as a girl, just like Will is in this story. David Reimer, despite being told he was a girl all his life, never felt like one. You can't train/raise someone into feeling like they're of a gender that they're not.
> 
> In this fic, Will’s story begins very similarly to David Reimer’s. However, the ending is quite different—by the end she will be fully convinced she is a girl. So, as I said, this story is completely incorrect. It doesn't reflect my views, nevertheless real life. My justification is that Will’s empathy made her sense of identity, and therefore attachment to gender identity, much more fluid than it might have been otherwise, which is what allows Hannibal to manipulate her into becoming the girl he wants her to be. Of course, Will's empathy as expressed in fandom has been stretched beyond the realms of reality, making this premise unrealistic. Either way, that doesn’t make this any less fucked up. At its core, this is a story about abuse, and its long-lasting effects. It is not a happy story, and it will not have a happy ending.
> 
> With all of that in mind, please take care of yourselves, and think before you dive into this story. 
> 
> With regards,
> 
> Your Author
> 
> EDIT: To clarify, this story was not inspired by David Reimer. I found out about his case after I'd already plotted out this fic. I mention David Reimer because my biggest concern with this fic is the implication that it's possible to train someone into thinking they're of a gender that they're not. I'm sure y'all know that fanfic isn't a source of dependable knowledge, but I wanted to make sure that no one would take that message away from this fic.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal goes to the orphanage. He finds a child.

The child watches as the other children play. 

There’s a little girl following along with a couple of boys. She’s afraid of getting her shoes dirty—it just rained the night before. The field is muddy. 

The boys laugh and jostle each other. The little girl wants to join in, but the dress she’s wearing is a pale lavender, easily stained. She stays back, carefully picking her way through the grass, not noticing the way the boys stop to look at one another and whisper. When she gets close enough the bigger boy pushes her, and she stumbles back, confused. He pushes her again, harder. Her arms pinwheel a little, and her face scrunches up in consternation. She asks him to stop. He doesn’t. He pushes, and pushes, and pushes, until finally she stumbles and falls, landing right in a puddle. She bursts into tears, wailing loudly.

The child says nothing. Doesn’t join in, doesn’t help. Just watches with solemn blue eyes, hands idly grabbing fistfulls of grass to tear and let go. Fingers stained green, just like the little girl’s dress.

Hannibal observes from behind the window, hands clasped behind his back.

“And the child’s name?”

The orphanage director steps in closer, trying to pick out which child he’s referring to. Hannibal’s nose twitches. The director’s scent is musty. Clothes starched and ironed, but gone too long without a dry-clean. 

“Ah. That one. His name is William. William Graham.”

Hannibal nods.

“I would like to speak with William.”

* * *

“William,” the director calls, and Will looks up. His eyes are startling in his face. Curiously deep. Curiously blank. He rises to his feet and waits for the adults to approach, eyes landing and staying on Hannibal, noting the importance with which the director seems to regard him, his carriage.

They stop a few feet away from him. Despite the chill in the air, Will is wearing shorts. His knees are muddy. He has a smudge of dirt on his cheek.

“Hello, Will.”

Will notices the direction of Hannibal’s gaze, and hides his dirty hands behind his back, foregoing the handshake he’d been taught to give to others when introducing himself. He clasps them together, mirroring Hannibal.

“Hello.”

“William, this is Dr. Hannibal Lecter. He would like to speak to you.”

Will looks back at Hannibal and remains quiet. Simply waiting. Hannibal turns to give the director a small smile, a clear dismissal. The director swallows, face pinched, briefly looking back at Will with something akin to frustration before turning to walk away.

Hannibal walks over to Will’s side, turning to face in the same direction. The girl in the lavender dress is still sniffling. One of the orphanage caretakers is gently scolding her, one hand pointing and the other rubbing the little girl’s arm soothingly.

“Tell me about yourself, Will.”

Will frowns.

“Why?”

The little girl fusses, misery in wet socks clinging to round ankles. The caretaker is getting impatient but is trying to hide it, a sigh caught in her chest making her tense in the shoulders.

“Because I would like to get to know you.”

"Why?"

"Why do you think?"

Will stays crouched low to the ground, inspecting a half-buried rock embedded in the earth. His attention is no longer on the little girl and the way she rubs at her puffy eyes with a fist.

"Adults only ask questions 'cause it's polite,” he answers.

“Being polite is important.”

Will shrugs. The little girl is trailing along behind the caretaker now, hand dangling in front of her as she is led gently back to the orphanage.

“Adults also say lying is bad.”

"You don’t agree?"

Will scrunches his nose and then shakes his head.

"Adults never mean the polite stuff."

"Ah,” Hannibal pauses to process this. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. When we’re polite, we often say things we don’t mean. And that’s much like lying, isn’t it?”

Will nods somberly, eyes still trained on the ground.

“Which do you think is more important, Will? Being polite? Or being truthful?"

Will pries the rock up from the earth, brushing off roots and clumps of dirt. It's quite ordinary-looking, vaguely triangular and consisting of strips of varying grey.

"Being quiet," he says, as though it were obvious. He makes a  _ shh _ noise for emphasis, finally looking up with big, blue eyes wide in their seriousness, one finger held in front of his lips.

Hannibal regards the child with a faint smile and crouches down to Will’s level, lowering his voice so that others can’t overhear.

“You are very wise.”

This close, Hannibal can see the dirt smudged on Will’s cheek. He takes out a handkerchief, and Will stays still as he gingerly wipes it away.

“Ms. Natalie says I shouldn’t back-talk,” Will says, conspiratorially. 

“What else does Ms. Natalie say?”

“That ribbons are for girls. And that you can’t have dessert for dinner.”

“Do you like ribbons, Will?”

Will brushes the rock off, sets it down in front of him, and begins to pile pieces of grass on top.

“Stacy likes the blue ones best.”

“Blue is a nice color.”

Hannibal plucks an especially long piece of grass and holds it out. Will regards it for a second, before accepting it and adding it to the pile.

“Blue is for boys, pink is for girls. ‘Cept for ribbons, ‘cause ribbons is for girls.”

“Are you a boy or a girl, Will?”

Will doesn’t meet Hannibal’s eyes, instead bending forward, nose nearly touching the ground, inspecting the rock-and-grass formation from a different angle. There’s a pause.

“Ms. Natalie says I need to sleep in the boys’ room.”

“Have you ever wanted to sleep in the girls’ room?”

Will shrugs again.

“Not really. Jeremy snores, though.”

Hannibal chuckles. A gust of wind blows by, and the blades of grass, so carefully piled atop one another, scatter over the field. Will watches, unreacting. He doesn’t seem bothered at all to see his efforts carried off by the breeze as he simply settles back onto his knees, accepting.

“What were you trying to build?” Hannibal asks.

Will hunches, back curling over so his chest touches knobby knees. 

“Dunno.”

Carefully, Will places the rock back into the hole it had been pried out of. Dirt is packed neatly back around its edges, until it is safely ensconced in the earth once again.

Hannibal observes quietly the care with which Will tries to restore the rock to how he found it, the way he runs his dirt-caked fingers over the ripped up remains of the grass. A conscientious child. An observant child. A child without direction, and in need of direction. He comes to a decision and stands, lightly dusting off his pants.

“I shall be seeing you soon, Will. It was very nice to meet you.”

Will looks up at that, a small furrow of surprise between his brows.

“You’re weird, Mister,” he says.

“Weirder than you?”

“No. Just weird weird. Not like Ms. Natalie or the director.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment. Goodbye, Will.”

Will doesn’t bother to respond. Having been dismissed, his attention drifts back to the ground. There’s a small black beetle crawling there now, disturbed by the upturned earth. He nods, quiet.

Hannibal takes his leave, mind buzzing.

* * *

About a week later, Will is asked to pack his things. He doesn’t have much. Some clothes, one pair of shoes, a raggedy stuffed dog named Winston.

Hannibal is waiting for him by the door. Some of the other kids glance his way as one of the caretakers helps him pack, but no one bothers to say goodbye. Morning lessons have just ended, they’re all preoccupied with the prospect of play.

It’s a dreary, chilly day. Will seems hesitant to take Hannibal’s hand, but he does, eventually, and is led towards a black car. He can’t help but look back at the squat, ugly building as they pull out of the parking lot. He doesn’t feel bad about leaving it, but he isn’t excited to see where he’ll be going, either.

“How are you feeling, Will?”

Will bites his lip, suddenly shy. He shrugs.

“I’d prefer it if you’d answer with your words. I’ll ask again. How are you feeling?”

Will wriggles in his seat, curling and flexing his hands.

“Okay.”

Hannibal nods, eyes still on the road.

“Good.”

After a little while, Will gathers up the courage to ask.

“Where are we going?”

“Home.”

This is unhelpful. Will is vaguely aware that, since Hannibal took him away from the orphanage, they must be “family” now. And since they’re “family”, Hannibal’s home is now Will’s “home”, too. But this doesn’t tell him what “home” will be like or what they’ll do once they get there.

Caught on the notion of “family”, Will asks another question.

“Are you my new papa?”

“In a sense. But you may call me Hannibal.”

Hannibal. Ha-nni-bal. Will mouths it carefully to himself, whispering it until it feels comfortable on his tongue.

“Will I have a mama, too?”

“No. It will just be me and you.”

Will furrows his eyebrows a little bit at that, but accepts it easily. At the orphanage, whenever they played house, the other children always had a mama and a papa and a baby. Will never played along, but sometimes he watched. He didn’t know that papas came without mamas. He thought that papas were papas and mamas were mamas only because they had each other. Nothing at the orphanage had ever contradicted that belief. Will isn’t sure what it means to have a papa without a mama, but Hannibal seems unbothered, so Will decides it must be fine.

“Does that bother you?” Hannibal asks.

Will shakes his head. He never had a mama before. This will be no different.

The rest of the car ride passes quietly, with the soft sound of classical music playing over the stereo. Will watches the scenery pass by, counting lamp posts until they’re gone, and then counting houses, then hills, then clouds.

Finally, there’s the sound of tires crunching over gravel, and then Hannibal is pulling the car into the neat driveway of a two-story house, painted a deep red with brown accents to complement its terracotta shingles. Will watches curiously, kicking his feet idly as Hannibal comes around the car to open the door and unbuckle him from the car seat.

The air here is fresh. The house seems to be alone, surrounded by trees, the long driveway winding off into the distance behind them. Hannibal watches carefully for a reaction, but Will doesn’t comment. He grips the edge of his shirt in loose-fisted apprehension and alternates between looking at the ground and up at Hannibal’s shoulder, avoiding eye-contact and waiting to see what will happen.

“Let’s get your things,” Hannibal decides, and walks around towards the trunk to pull out the bag of Will’s belongings. Will is trailing closely behind him, so much so that Hannibal nearly steps on him when he turns back around. Will eyes the bag in Hannibal’s hand, then peers over the lip of the trunk.

“Where’s Winston?”

“Winston?”

Will’s breathing quickens. He’d let Hannibal take Winston from him and put him in the trunk because he could sense Hannibal’s disdain for its raggedy-ness and hadn’t wanted to anger him. He’d been tired on the drive, but unwilling to take a nap because without Winston he has nightmares. Hannibal sets the bag on the ground and opens it, digging around inside.

“Did you forget him at the orphanage?”

Will shook his head furiously, chest hitching in panic and eyes tearing up. He makes a low whimper and begins to sniffle, trying valiantly not to cry and failing. Hannibal kneels down next to him, shushing him and gently wiping his cheeks.

“Shh, it’s okay. Once you’ve gotten settled I’ll give them a call and see if they can send him along, hmm?”

Will’s voice is strangled in his throat.

_ No, _ he wants to say.  _ No, I saw you take him. I  _ gave _ him to you. What did you do with him? _

Hannibal sighs and gently brings Will to his chest, patting his back and kneading his thin shoulder lightly until Will’s breathing evens out. When they part, there are tear stains on his jacket.

“Would you like to see the inside of the house?”

Will wants to hold Winston. He wants to go back to the orphanage and hide under his bed. A hard lump builds in his sternum and his lip trembles. Hannibal waits silently, and slowly his intense expectation overwhelms Will’s upset, so he nods. This time, with no other recourse for comfort, he reaches up to take Hannibal’s hand on his own. Maybe on another day he would’ve asked to explore the outside more, but now he’s just tired. Hannibal squeezes his hand lightly, and together they enter the house, leaving their shoes by the door.

The floors are hardwood, the colors rich and deep. Will can’t help but compare it to the orphanage, where the furnishings were sparse, old, and everything was safe and child-proof. Here, there are sharp corners and heavy objects everywhere he looks. There are shadows lurking at every angle, strange shapes, gleaming surfaces. He doesn’t have time to peer into the glass cabinets where various knick knacks are being stored before Hannibal is tugging him gently down a hallway and to the kitchen.

“Will I have my own room?”

“You will,” Hannibal answers. “I’m about to show it to you.”

The second they enter the kitchen, Will stiffens. His hand clenches tight around Hannibal’s fingers, and he shuffles closer to his leg.

Hannibal hums. “Is everything all right, Will? There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

Hannibal’s smile is amused, the crooked edges of his teeth catching the light. Will’s other hand, still gripping his shirt, presses tightly against his belly. For a second, their eyes meet and hold. Will doesn’t know what Hannibal wants to show him here, but he hopes it isn’t his room. He doesn’t like it here.

Hannibal stoops low, wraps an arm under Will’s legs, and hoists him up until he’s carrying him on his hip. Will grips him tight, burying his face in Hannibal’s shoulder.

“Can we go to my room now?”

“Just a moment.”

They head towards the pantry. Hannibal pulls a key out of his pocket. Unlocks a trapdoor embedded in the floor. 

They descend.

It’s spacious. And cold. One half of the room, the half that contains the stairs leading back up to the pantry, is painted a dark blue. It has taxidermy animal heads mounted on the walls, a leather armchair and a rustic-looking lamp with intricate metalwork along its stem standing next to it, a low glass table with a crystal and brass analog clock on top of it, rows of picture frames with black and white photos hanging beneath the taxidermy heads, and dark, wooden boxed shelves filled with various thick tomes pushed into the corner.

But that’s only one half of the room.

The other half of the room, cut off from the stairway, is an explosion of pinks and pastels. Everything is soft. The ground is covered by layers of rugs and quilts, a white desk with round, golden knobs is pushed against one wall and a small bed with a light, gauzy canopy against another. There’s another door, facing opposite of the stairs. It hangs ajar, revealing a small bathroom with a stool by the sink and marble countertops.

The divide between the two halves is jarring, as though someone had drawn an invisible line bisecting the room leading from one dimension to the next. Hannibal strides across the room and sets Will gently down on the far side, setting his bag down next to him.

“This will be your new room.”

Will’s toes curl inside his socks, digging into the plush padding underneath. He tentatively steps forward, looking around. There’s a mirror on top of a dresser, sitting at a right angle to the desk. It has a small jewelry box next to it. Will’s little face, round with baby fat and surrounded by a riot of curls, looks like an unfitting cut-out pasted into the background of a pale, watercolor illustration.

Unsure of what to say, or even what to think, he simply says, “I want Winston.”

Hannibal’s hand lands heavy on his shoulder and Will shivers as he watches Hannibal’s expression through the mirror.

“We’ll deal with that later,” Hannibal promises. “I worked very hard to set up this room for you. What do you say?”

Will curls into himself. But the orphanage caretakers had taught him this much, at least.

“…Thank you, Hannibal.”

Hannibal strokes a hand down the back of his head in reward.

“Very good, Wilhelmina.”


	2. predilection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal tells a story. Will throws a tantrum. Things change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: mentions of pedophilia, extreme misogyny, emotional manipulation, brainwashing, child abuse.
> 
> This is the chapter in which Will's pronouns and name will change, due to Hannibal's manipulations. In addition, this chapter will also make clear that Hannibal's brainwashing of Will isn't simply in convincing Will that he's a girl. He also changes the definition of what it means to be a "girl". He is essentially telling Will, "You are a girl, and as a girl, you must let men use you for their sexual pleasure. That is your job." The sexual training doesn't quite start yet, but this misogynistic message will be loud and clear in this chapter. If that will disturb you, reconsider before moving forward.

“Once upon a time there was a little girl named Mischa. All that knew her agreed that Mischa was the most beautiful and perfect little girl they’d ever seen. Everyone loved her. But more than that, she was also polite, kind, and caring. She would greet everyone with a ‘Good morning’ while making her way through town, and with a ‘Have a nice day!’ when she left. She fed the pigeons parts of her lunch. She always did her chores and listened to what her father told her to do. But most importantly, she always, always did what all good little girls do: offer up her pussy for men to fuck.”

* * *

“Do you like your room, Wilhelmina?”

Will nods his head. The blankets are soft, the mattress bouncy. He has more room to himself than he ever did at the orphanage. Everything was pleasing to touch, and brightly colored.

“Can I go outside?”

Hannibal ignores him.

“I designed this room with a very special little girl in mind.”

Will frowns. He thought it was his room, though.

“Who?”

Hannibal uses his pointer finger to tap Will’s nose.

“Why, you, of course.”

Will frowns again.

“But Ms. Natalie said—”

“Would I lie to you, Wilhelmina?”

Will isn’t sure. Would Hannibal lie to him? He’s pretty sure he would. All adults lied. But he also knows what answer Hannibal is looking for.

“No…”

“Well, I wouldn’t lie to you about this. You are no longer at the orphanage, or with Ms. Natalie. You live here, with me, under my care. Now, would I go through the trouble of designing such a beautiful room if it weren’t for a beautiful little girl?”

Will slowly shakes his head. But did that mean—?

“That’s right. You should be grateful, Wilhelmina. I went through all this trouble, just for you. Now, what do you say?”

“Thank you, Hannibal,” Will says, dutifully.

Hannibal gives him a kiss on the forehead, smoothing back his hair with one wide, warm palm.

“Anything for my precious little girl.”

* * *

“Hannibal, what’s a pussy?”

“It’s not good to interrupt your daddy while he’s speaking,” Hannibal says. But he carefully guides a willing and curious Will to his hands and knees.

“Your pussy, Wilhelmina, is this, right here.”

Hannibal pulls the edge of Will’s shorts down over his ass and traces a finger between his crack, smoothing over the tight opening puckered there.

Will squirms at the foreign feeling. He feels strange, being exposed like this, but he can’t pin-point why. Hannibal helped him dress and undress all the time, like the orphanage caretakers. Why would this be any different?

“You mean my butthole?”

“It’s uncouth to call it that, Wilhelmina.”

Will isn’t sure why Hannibal insists on calling him Wilhelmina, and he finds it confusing. But he doesn’t bother to correct him.

“You should call it ‘pussy’ or ‘cunt’. There are other euphemisms for it, too, but that will do for now. Now, to continue with the story.

“Mischa always did what all good little girls do: offer up her pussy for men to fuck.”

Will isn’t sure what Hannibal meant by ‘fuck’, either, but he was told not to interrupt, so he sits silently, shorts pulled back up over his rump, clutching one of the many stuffed animals piled on the bed to his chest.

* * *

“There. A perfect fit,” Hannibal says with a smile, tying the ribbon behind Will’s back.

“But it’s itchy,” Will complains, tugging at the lace trim of his dress. “Why can’t I wear what you wear?”

“Don’t you like the new dress I bought you?”

Will looks down. It  _ is _ a nice dress. Dark blue, and it has a pattern of running dogs along the bottom hem, which Will likes. But the puffy sleeves pinch his arms and the  _ lace— _ the lace feels horrible whenever it brushes against his skin.

“But I wanna be like you, Hannibal,” Will says, looking up at Hannibal with wide eyes and a small pout. He tugs at Hannibal’s pants leg for emphasis.

Hannibal frowns.

It’s a small expression, just a twitch of the mouth, but Will feels it like a staggering blow. He shrinks back, cowering under Hannibal’s disapproval, the immense feeling that he’s done something  _ wrong, _ that he  _ displeased _ Hannibal somehow. That he deserves imminent punishment.

“Only men are allowed to wear suits and pants,” Hannibal says. “Girls must wear dresses. And this is a nice dress, is it not? Don’t be ungrateful, Wilhelmina.”

Will’s chin trembles, but he nods, sniffling.

“Sorry, Hannibal.”

“There, there,” Hannibal says, stroking Will’s hair. It’s growing long now. “That’s all right. I’ll buy you some tights, so that the lace won’t bother your skin anymore. Something pretty. With pink hearts on them, what do you say?”

Will nods somberly, not particularly caring but eager to please. He buries his face into Hannibal’s leg.

“Are you mad at me?”

“I could never stay mad at my cute, little girl,” Hannibal reassures.

* * *

“The baker, the baker’s son, the black smith, the bookshop owner, and her daddy and all the men in town loved to fuck Mischa. She had the best pussy, and was always sweet to them and did what they wanted. It’s what made her such a good little girl, and what made everyone love her. Every day, after fetching the water and feeding the chickens, she would go to her room, lift up her skirts, and make sure that her pussy was good and ready for fucking. Then she would go to town, and after wishing everyone ‘Good morning’ she would bend over in the middle of the town square and lift her skirt. Any man feeling sad, or tired, or frustrated, knew they could always count on Mischa being there to help them. They would fuck her, and she would thank them, and when they left, everyone was happy.

“But, even though Mischa’s little town was always quiet and happy, the kingdom was in decline. Famine and pestilence were wiping out crops, and people were dying. You see, in order for the kingdom to thrive, it needed a young, fertile queen. The old queen had grown too elderly, and had recently died. The palace and capital was all in an uproar looking for someone to marry the prince, so that they could usher in a new king and queen. Young girls from all over the kingdom travelled to the capital to see if they could have the chance to be the new queen, but none of them were good enough. There were plenty that were young, beautiful, and likely fertile, but the prince and the king’s advisors simply couldn’t find a girl selfless and good enough to be a proper queen.”

* * *

“Fucking,” Hannibal says, “is when a woman gives pleasure to a man in a very specific way.”

Will scrunches his nose in confusion.

“It’s what a mommy does with a daddy,” Hannibal continues. “And what I will do to you.”

“It feels good?”

“Yes. But the man’s pleasure always comes first. Remember that, Wilhelmina. It’s like a game. In order to win, you make the man happy.”

“How?”

“By allowing him to put his penis inside your pussy,” Hannibal says.

Will scrunches his nose again, this time in disgust.

“That doesn’t sound fun.”

“It’s only for adults and very, very special little girls.”

At the prospect of exclusivity, Will’s interest is piqued.

“Can I play?”

Hannibal chuckles and pecks him on the forehead. Will whines and swipes at him ineffectually, wiping at his forehead.

“In due time, Wilhelmina. In due time.”

* * *

“Mischa liked living at home, being fucked by her daddy and his friends every day and keeping all the hard-working men in town happy. Because of this, she had no desire to become queen, so she never went to visit the capital. She was a good girl who did everything her daddy told her to do, and never wanted more for herself than she already had.

“But eventually, news of how happy and prosperous their little town had remained reached the capital. The prince heard of a little girl who lived there, rumoured to be the most perfect whore the kingdom had ever seen. He sent his most trusted knight to investigate, and see if the rumors were true. So the knight leapt on top of his mighty steed and rode across the kingdom and to its outskirts, right into Mischa’s quiet little town.”

* * *

“But I want to go outside!”

“No, Wilhelmina.”

“Stop calling me that!”

“Why? That is your name.”

“No it’s not.”

“It is now.”

“You just like it ‘cause it’s a girl name.”

“Yes. A beautiful name for a beautiful little girl. Only she isn’t being so good for her daddy right now, is she?”

“But I’m a boy.”

It’s the first time Will has ever said it, out loud. It makes him feel funny, like the room had been flipped on its head. He isn’t sure if he likes it or not, but he knows immediately that Hannibal doesn’t. Coldness emanates from the older man, his face an icy mask. Will’s first instinct is to submit, appease, but his resentment burns it away just as quickly.

“Why? Because you slept in the boy’s room back at the orphanage? There is no boy’s room, now. Only this room. Your room. A room made for a young lady.”

“I don’t want it anymore.”

“No?”

“I wanna go outside.”

“I forbid it.”

Will isn’t sure how long it has been since he’d seen the sun. There are no windows here, no way to tell time except for the crystal analog clock on the other side of the room. The side with the stairs, leading up, up, and away. Like a fairytale. Like Mischa, being swung up onto a magnificent stallion, riding to the capital. Maybe life outside, maybe life  _ before _ is a fairytale, too. Maybe outside isn’t a real place, and what Will can see is all of the world. Maybe he dreamed it all. Or maybe outside isn’t for little girls…

He sits on the side of the room he’s allowed to sit on, and wails. Will feels the invisible boundary between both halves of the room like a solid wall, bearing down on him, wrought with Hannibal’s forceful personality, the heavy hand of his unbending expectations. Him, trapped on the girl’s side. Hannibal, always careful to remain on the other side except when necessary, free to leave.

“Wilhelmina.”

“No! No, no, no, no, no!”

Hannibal remains unmoving.

“Wilhelmina,” he says again, voice controlled and stern.

“Outside! I wanna!”

“I’m afraid that isn’t an option anymore.”

Will shrieks, tears pouring down his face, and pounds his fists against the floor, legs kicking, head shaking from side to side. Hannibal doesn’t so much as twitch. Will keeps up his screeching and sobbing as long as he can, but with no reaction from Hannibal, eventually his tantrum dies out into hiccups and sniffles.

“Are you done, Wilhelmina?”

“Not Wilhelmina,” Will says, petulant. Stubborn.

“No?”

“Will.”

“Will is a boy’s name.”

“Not a girl.”

“All right then.” 

Hannibal lifts Will from under his armpits and sets him on his feet. Then he begins to unzip the dress Will is wearing, soft and green and slightly puffy along its sleeves. He has Will step out of the dress, then out of the thin white stockings, and finally, out of the small, cotton, strawberry-printed panties, until Will is shivering, naked. 

Then Hannibal carries him to the other side of the room.

Will clings to him, eyes wide. Are they leaving? Going upstairs? Outside? Just like that?

Hannibal sets him down on the other side of the threshold and Will stares down at his feet, eyes wide as his toes curl against the hard floor, so different from the soft, plush carpeting of the girl’s side. 

“Since you’re a boy, you’re not allowed girl things,” Hannibal says. And then he leaves.

* * *

“Mischa, being the courteous, good girl that she was, let the knight fuck her right away. The knight was so impressed with her graciousness and the happiness of the entire town that loved her that he insisted she come back to the capital with him. So, eventually, Mischa’s daddy agreed, and Mischa packed her things and left with the knight. As the knight and Mischa travelled through the kingdom, Mischa’s reputation spread. Everyone marvelled over how beautiful, how polite and courteous, and how kind-hearted and caring she was. But most of all, she impressed every man who got the chance to put his cock in her. 

“Stories of Mischa’s amazing pussy spread far and wide throughout the kingdom, and by the time Mischa arrived at the palace, the prince was very excited to meet her. Once the knight had introduced her to the prince, Mischa bowed, said hello, then bent over and allowed the prince to taste her cunt. He mounted her right then and there, and they fucked for hours in the courtroom, the prince’s advisors and courtiers watching to make sure that Mischa was a suitable candidate to be future queen.”

* * *

The cold, hard floor is no longer a novelty. Will aches, down to his bones. The chill has settled in, his fingers creaking from where they grip his shoulders as he curls in on himself. The light from the other side of the room, the warm, soft, side, the girl side, reflects off the hard, gleaming surfaces of the side that Will is on now. The shadows from the taxidermy heads are silent, but Will hears their voices anyway, whispering. He covers his ears, but they slither inside. He sobs, overactive imagination swarming about him as he imagines all the ugly, monstrous things that hover about him. Monsters he could be safe from, if only he could just…if only…

He starts towards the light, to get away, back to the sanctuary of his bed and the warm covers he can pull up over himself, but stops.

That’s for girls.

And he told Hannibal he was a boy. If he wants to be a boy, he can’t go back.

The clock ticked on. Will sits on the floor, hugging his knees, staring at the picture-perfect princess room with its canopy bed and stuffed animals and ribbons and bows and soft things. His face feels frozen. He does not cry, does not try screaming again. He knows Hannibal won’t hear him, and likely won’t care if he does. He does not know for how long he sits there, shivering, arms and legs prickling in the cold. The clock’s ticking seems elastic, stretching into oblivion, the spaces between each tick bulging, ballooning outwards with ominous echoes that bounce around in Will’s skull.

His head hurts from his earlier tantrum, and his face feels stiff with dried tears. His lip begins to tremble and his chest begins to hitch as he thinks about how Hannibal must hate him now, how he’ll be left here all alone, forever, how everything would be so much easier if he were just a girl…

What makes him a boy?

He doesn’t know. He just knows that that’s what he was told. It’s what he was told, every day, until he met Hannibal, and Hannibal asked him what he was. 

Hannibal says he’s a girl. 

…No, Hannibal  _ wants _ him to be a girl.

Slowly, Will unfurls from his position, and takes a step forward.

Why shouldn’t he be a girl? Why shouldn’t he be able to sleep in his bed, wear pretty clothes?

He wants to be good for Hannibal. Hannibal is his protector, his provider.

So why…

His toes brush the edge of the carpet, just over the threshold.

Why does she think she is a boy?

* * *

“The prince married Mischa the very next day. Mischa’s job, as queen, was not just to fulfill the requirements of the magic spell that kept their kingdom’s land fruitful and healthy. Her job was also to help the king alleviate the kingdom’s problems and lift the people’s unhappiness. Mischa was excellent at this. Any man that came to the king asking for help got the chance to fuck Mischa, whose mouth and pussy were always kept ready with the king’s cock. Mischa let them do whatever they liked to her, and she always enjoyed it. She loved being the kingdom’s whore. Everyone who left the palace, left it happier. Mischa even helped solve many conflicts by letting both parties fuck her at the same time.”

* * *

Eventually, Hannibal comes back. At the sound of the basement trapdoor opening and Hannibal’s footsteps down the stairs, Wilhelmina looks up from where she’s sitting on the ground, her fingers tangled in ribbons.

“Hannibal!”

“What is this? Is it my good little girl, Wilhelmina?”

Wilhelmina pouts.

“Hannibal, my dress.”

Hannibal walks over and helps her do up the zipper in the back.

“And what are you doing now?”

“I wanted to braid it,” she says morosely, looking down at the tangled ribbons wound around her fingers.

“I can teach you.” Hannibal smiles down at her and crouches to the ground, holding out his hand. Both of his feet are on hard floor. They face each other, an invisible line drawn between them, delineating two worlds. Wilhelmina hands him the ribbons.

“Really?”

“Yes,” Hannibal says, warmly, eyes crinkling. “As I will teach you many, many things.”

* * *

“And so, with Mischa as its rightful queen, the kingdom prospered and entered into a golden age of peace. The end.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't want to moderate comments for this fic originally because I felt that only letting positive comments through for a fic that deals with such controversial issues was...dishonest? somehow? idk. But things looked like they were heating up in the comment section and turning into back-and-forth arguing (which I probably should've expected, to be honest) so I've decided to lock that down. Thank you to everyone who has argued in my defense thus far, I really appreciate your encouragement.


	3. choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilhelmina's training begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: pedophilia, intercrural sex, oral sex, child abuse, emotional abuse
> 
> Hannibal begins to train Wilhelmina sexually this chapter. There are also a lot of mood and tone switches between happy and sad moments, meant to reflect the ups and downs of an abusive relationship. In the end, Wilhelmina will have a chance to leave, but she won't take it. She's repressed memories of the outside world, and chooses to remain with what has become familiar and comfortable for her: Hannibal.

Wilhelmina’s laughter tinkles brightly through the air as she clings to Hannibal’s arms, giggling from within her ruffles and lace and pastel skirts.

“Again, Hannibal! Again!” she demands, jumping up and down excitedly.

Hannibal’s toothy smile mirrors hers as he once again lifts her, hands firmly supporting her waist. She points her toes and arches her back, swanlike, reaching, reaching, reaching until her fingers brush the cool cement ceiling.

Her peals of laughter ring, her smile glows. She thinks to herself, not for the first or last time, that she’s the happiest little girl in the world.

“I’m flying!”

Hannibal swings her around, once, twice, before setting her back on her feet. Her ruddy cheeks peek out from behind a riot of chocolate curls, which have grown long enough to reach her chest. She’s slightly breathless from laughter, her sweet face lit up with joy.

“I love you, Hannibal,” she says.

“I love you too, sweetheart.”

* * *

Wilhelmina looks up at where Hannibal’s cock juts out proudly. He is sitting on the edge of the bed, and Wilhelmina is knelt in front of him. Will gives the cock a dubious look, eyes flicking between it and Hannibal’s face, which is set into an expression of placid benevolence.

“This will be fun?”

“Once you learn to do it well,” Hannibal assures. “Now, why don’t you try licking it?”

Wilhelmina hesitates, wrinkling her nose.

“But isn’t it dirty?”

“It will be fine, sweet girl.”

Wilhelmina bites her lip, hesitant. Hannibal cups her cheek in his hand, fingers extending down past her jaw and to her neck.

“Don’t worry, Wilhelmina. It will be hard, at first, but I will lead you through it. It isn’t scary, see?”

Wilhelmina leans into his warmth just slightly, rubbing her cheek against the wide palm. She still looks wary, but she gives in when Hannibal gives her a nod and a smile.

“Okay.”

She leans forward, pink tongue flicking out to touch the tip of his cock. After a moment, she tries again, small kitten licks.

“Tastes funny.”

“That’s how it’s supposed to taste. Now why don’t you try giving it a little suck?”

Wilhelmina makes another face.

“Do I have to?”

“Of course you don’t. But do you remember what I told you?”

Wilhelmina frowns in confusion.

“About what it means to be a good girl.”

“…Good girls let all the men fuck their pussies?”

“Yes. And?”

“And… suck their cocks?”

“Exactly. This is my cock. And you’re a good girl, aren’t you, Will? Just like Mischa.”

Will’s entire face lights up at that.

“Like Mischa!”

Hannibal strokes her hair back from her face, tucking it behind her ear. 

“Yes. I am going to teach you how to properly suck cock today, Wilhelmina. Doesn’t that sound fun?”

Wilhelmina looks considerably more excited now. She scoots forward on her knees and inspects Hannibal’s cock more closely this time.

“Try touching it. Yes, just like that. Now, open your mouth. And watch your teeth—men don’t like it when your teeth touch their cocks.”

Will dutifully opens her mouth, going slightly cross-eyed as she leans forward and begins to suckle at the head. She lets go with a small gasp when it twitches.

“That’s normal. Keep going, Wilhelmina. Very good. Just like that, you’re doing so well.”

Hannibal cards his fingers through her hair again, then clamps his fingers down on the back of her skull.

“Stay still, darling. This next part will be hard, but you can do it.”

And he slides his hips forward, slowly edging his cock further into her mouth, until it hits the back of her throat and her muscles involuntarily convulse, clenching at the tip. Her eyes water and she begins to panic, unable to breath, small fists beating against Hannibal’s thighs. After a couple of seconds, Hannibal draws back and lets her go, watching dispassionately as she falls back and coughs, spittle dripping from her lips, eyes watering and sniffling.

“Why—why’d you do that, Hannibal?”

“I’m sorry, dear. Come here.” He gathers her in his arms and pats her back, rocking them both side to side. “I know it’s hard. But you’ll get used to it. Eventually, you’ll learn to enjoy it, even. The beginning is always hard, but I know you can do it.”

Wilhelmina sniffles again, but nods.

“That’s enough for today, I think. Next time, I’ll show you what it’s like when the man you are sucking comes. That’s when you know you’ve done a good job.”

“So I was bad?”

“No, of course not, sweet thing. You were perfect, for your first time. Don’t worry, you’ll improve.”

Will’s shoulders relax a bit.

“I’ll do better next time, I promise.”

Hannibal gives her a kiss on the forehead, then one on her nose.

“Thank you, little one.”

* * *

Hannibal walks in, hands behind his back. Will is sitting at her desk, coloring, kicking her legs back and forth so that her skirts make a slight, rhythmic  _ swish _ noise.

“Wilhelmina,” Hannibal calls. She whips around, face lighting up.

“Hannibal!”

She runs forward and skids to a stop right at the edge of the threshold, rocking back and forth on her feet impatiently.

Hannibal keeps his hands behind his back and steps closer. When he meets her in the middle he goes down on one knee and leans forward.

They kiss. Wilhelmina is still learning, spit smearing around her mouth, and she can’t help but frown into it, missing the feeling of Hannibal’s arms around her shoulders. She allows him to slip his tongue inside her mouth, and sucks lightly on it, just as she was taught. Finally, they pull back, foreheads touching.

“I brought a present for you,” Hannibal murmurs.

“What kind of present?”

“A noble one,” Hannibal says, and pulls the stuffed dog out from behind his back.

Wilhelmina’s eyes widen and her hands fly up to her chest. For a moment, her breath stutters to a stop.

“A doggie,” she whispers.

“Every princess needs a good, loyal companion to stay by her side, am I right?”

Wilhelmina’s eyes water and she nods, one hand hovering above the stuffed dog’s head, stalling, before she gently strokes its floppy ears fondly.

“I can keep him?”

“You can,” Hannibal confirms. “His name is Sir Winston Leopold von Edelhard the Second.”

“Winston,” Wilhelmina breathes.

“Yes. Winston, the second.”

Remembering her days from the orphanage is strange for Wilhelmina now. The memories have the texture of frayed cotton, unravelling into strands through which the light peeks through. Though there are other stuffed toys in her room, she very rarely plays with them, and doesn’t sleep with them the way she had once slept with the old, raggedy Winston (the first). She had never quite forgotten him, even if the ache of losing her beloved companion had dulled over time.

She hadn’t realized that Hannibal had noticed. She had hardly noticed herself.

But now, she has Winston back. Not the same Winston, but a Winston. And this one was a gift from Hannibal. Something he bought because he saw she was lonely and needed something to hold her over during the long hours in which she was left alone. 

This was proof that he cared.

This Winston has chocolate brown fur, soft, floppy ears, and shiny, black eyes. He wears a regal blue vest interwoven with shiny silver thread. He is nothing like the Winston she had lost, which had been lumpy around the middle and white with black spots. But she would treasure him just the same.

“Thank you, Hannibal,” she says, and finally, he surrenders the dog to her arms. She clutches it to her chest, twisting her upper body from side to side as she cuddles it.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you—” 

She leaps into his arms and he catches her deftly, so that one of her arms loops around his neck and the other holds Winston firmly in its grasp. He bounces her lightly, smiling as she laughs, snuggling into his neck.

“You’re welcome, my dear.”

* * *

“Please, Hannibal, please,” Wilhelmina sobs. “Please, daddy, I promise I’ll be good.”

“This is non-negotiable, Wilhelmina,” Hannibal says sternly. “You have been very rude. Discipline is in order.”

Wilhelmina collapses onto the carpets and weeps, her limbs lax and uncooperative when Hannibal tries to tug her back to her feet. 

“Wilhelmina,” Hannibal warns. “Do not test me. It will not win you any favors.”

“But it’s not fair!”

“It’s not meant to be. You are a girl. You have no say in fairness. Your only job is to please me, and I told you very clearly: only I am allowed to touch your pussy.”

“But that’s not  _ fair!” _

Wilhelmina had been curious, that’s all. Hannibal kept talking about her pussy this, her pussy that. She just wanted to know about this thing that she had that seemed so important. She didn’t understand it past knowing that it was incredibly essential that she eventually learn to use it well. She hadn’t gotten past pulling off her underwear when Hannibal had found her.

Hannibal clamps a hand down on the top of Wilhelmina’s head, holding her still. She immediately clams up, shoulders hiking up to her shoulders and shaking in place.

“Are you going to keep fighting me on this, Wilhelmina?”

A long silence, punctuated only by Wilhelmina’s harsh breaths.

Finally, she says, quietly, “No, Daddy.”

Silent tears stream down her face as Hannibal pulls a plain, blue box out from underneath the bed. Wilhelmina doesn’t cooperate, but she doesn’t struggle as Hannibal strips her of her girly clothing and puts her in jeans and a grey t-shirt.

“This is your punishment,” Hannibal says, disappointment saturating his tone. “Now, go over there. Time-out, half an hour.”

Wilhelmina stiffly shuffles towards the other side of the room, before gingerly stepping off the carpets and onto the smooth, cold flooring of the male side. She shivers at the feeling, heartbeat rabbiting, sides heaving as her head swims, panic setting in.

“Hannibal—”

“Half an hour, Wilhelmina.”

Wilhelmina can taste his disapproval at the back of her throat, bitter and iron-coated. Her nose burns something fierce as she faces the wall, practically vibrating with tension. Her breath quickens, her vision takes on a staticky, pointillism quality. The pants feel strange against the delicate skin of her thighs, and she feels bare without her skirts.

She’s afraid. She’s afraid of never feeling warm again. She’s afraid of being alone. But most of all, she’s afraid that this means Hannibal won’t love her anymore, not now that he’s taken away her pretty things. The clock has struck twelve, the magic is gone. She’s left here, in the dark, to fend for herself. 

Her only hope is Hannibal.

She tries to count the ticking of the clock but the numbers are slippery in the slick grip of her mind, wriggling around the endless maze of her mind as she tries to navigate, blind, through its torpid twists and turns and hidden corners. She wants her ribbons, her soft tights, even the scratchy lace. She wants Winston. But those are all things unavailable to her now—things she’s decidedly aware that can be taken away from her, forever, at any time, should Hannibal ever abandon her. And then where would she be?

* * *

Hannibal leads her by the hand back to her side of the room. She’s quiet, small. One hand in Hannibal’s, the other with a fingernail being bitten in her mouth. 

“Hannibal?”

Hannibal doesn’t answer her. He barely looks at her, instead clinically raising her hands above her head so that he can pull her t-shirt off.

“Hannibal, do you still love me?”

Hannibal sighs.

“Let’s get you out of these clothes, first. Then we’ll talk about why you were very, very bad.”

Wilhelmina bites back another hot rush of tears, but nods, nearly tripping in her haste to step out of the jeans.

* * *

Her muscles jump at the cool feeling of something wet dripping down her thighs. She’s nervous. Hannibal said he couldn’t fuck her yet, that she was too little. But he could train her, so that when she was big enough, she would be ready.

He arranges her legs so that they’re tightly interlocked, wet thighs sticking together.

“All right, now bend—yes, just like that.”

Wilhelmina wiggles, positioned on her elbows and knees. Her skirts are flipped up and covering her head so that she’s surrounded by soft cotton and floral patterns, the overhead lights turning filmy as they filter through. The sounds of Hannibal moving, his pants being shoved down his thighs are muffled. She can feel the way he shifts as the bed moves beneath her, dipping under their combined weight. Something nudges at the crease between her thighs.

“Feel that, Wilhelmina?” Hannibal whispers. “That’s my cock.”

Hannibal can’t see her nod from underneath the skirts, but she understands. Cocks are what men use to fuck girls. If she’s to be a good girl, she needs to know how cocks work.

Hannibal slides in between the tight clamp of her thighs, until his hips meet the back of her legs.

“When I fuck you, it will be much like this, except my cock will go into your pussy,” Hannibal explains, and begins to pick up the pace. The bed bounces and Will grips at the duvet.

“Squeeze your legs together as best as you can, darling. You need your hole to be tight if you want to be a good fuck.”

“Yes, Haaa-annibal,” Will says, voice wavering with the movement of their bodies.

Hannibal grips her hips and hauls them up higher, the head of his cock peeking through with every thrust, leaking at the head. Wilhelmina squeezes her knees together as hard as she can, beginning to sweat under the hot and heavy weight of the man above her. She wasn’t sure if she was doing this right—Hannibal was making weird noises, and she didn’t understand what was happening. How does she know she’s doing a good job? How does she know she isn’t doing this wrong?

Hannibal’s hips stutter and then something warm and wet is spurting over her belly and the inside of her skirts. Hannibal lets out a grunt and rolls onto the side, slipping free of the clamp of her thighs. There’s a moment of silence, before Will peeks out from underneath her skirt, wide blue eyes observing the slightly flushed, dewy face of her caretaker.

“Is it over?”

“Yes. When the man comes—that is, when semen comes out of his cock—it is over. That’s how you know you did well.”

Wilhelmina makes a considering noise,rubbing her thighs together to feel the tackiness of drying lube.

“My skirt got dirty,” she complains.

Hannibal smiles and leans over to peck her on the nose.

“I’ll wash it for you. Don’t worry.”

“I did good?”

“Yes. Very good. You have brought me much pleasure, and you should be proud.”

Wilhelmina beams, kicking her feet.

_ That wasn’t so bad,  _ she thought to herself. _ Weird, but not bad. _

“You can do it anytime you like, Hannibal,” she decides. 

“Of course. That’s what you’re for, isn’t it?”

Hannibal affectionately pinches her cheek as he says it and she giggles, slapping his hand away.

“Mmhmm!”

* * *

Wilhelmina grips the crayon in her hand tightly, sweeping it across the page. On the page there are two figures. One is tall and wraith-like, colored in black. It has red eyes and a red mouth, shaped into a smiley face. The other looks like a blob of yellow. The black thing is bent over the yellow blob, stick-like arms reaching for the middle. They both have cocks sticking out.

“What’s this, Wilhelmina?”

“It’s Mischa!” Will says. “She’s getting fucked by a bad man.”

“A bad man?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Why a bad man?”

“Because if the bad man fucks Mischa she can turn him into a good man with magic!”

Hannibal pulls her hair away from the back of her neck, neatening it.

“And what are you coloring right now?”

“The sky,” she says. The crayon in her hand is pink. Hannibal smiles the same grin as the black thing on the page, and pats her head.

“Do you like it?” Wilhelmina asks.

“I love it,” Hannibal confirms, and blows a raspberry playfully on her cheek.

“Ew! Hannibal!”

Hannibal laughs.

“Is this for me?”

Wilhelmina nods and presents the paper to him.

“A present!”

Hannibal gives a dramatic bow, sweeping one hand behind his back and the other in front, before looking up at her, hair falling into his eyes, looking to all the world like the dashing gentleman of a fairytale dream.

“Thank you, Princess. I shall treasure it all my life.”

Wilhelmina gravely hands him the paper, and he straightens.

“Take care of it, Knight Hannibal,” she says. “Or Sir Winston Leopold von Edelhard the Second will fight you!”

Hannibal bows one more time.

“Of course, my lady.”

They smile at each other, happy in their game of make-believe.

“Now, where’s my kiss?”

* * *

Wilhelmina sits on her bed, staring at the stairway that leads to the trapdoor that leads—out. She waits. And waits. And waits.

And waits.

  
  


But it doesn’t come.

The sound that she’s so familiar with—the click of the trapdoor shutting, the sound of the lock turning—doesn’t reach her. Maybe, it had never even happened.

But that’s impossible.

Hannibal had left for the day, and he always, always locked the door behind him. Wilhelmina bites her lip. She shivers—a draft wafts in. Sweet, cool air. 

She draws her knees up to her chest, hands gripping her skirts, and rocks back and forth. 

What should she do?

She should stay. Stay on her side of the room. Be a good girl. There’s nothing good to come of disobeying Hannibal, she knows that. She’s  _ happy _ here.

But,  _ oh… _ she wants to go outside. She wants to see the pink sky. Spin in circles under a canopy of trees. Dance in a meadow. She can’t remember what outside is like, exactly, but part of her yearns for it. Maybe she just wants to  _ know. _

_ Just a peek. Just a quick peek, _ she says to herself.  _ One quick peek, and then I’ll come right back. _

The threshold between the carpets and the hard floor feels like a solid wall. She stands at the edge, staring sightlessly. Her hands tremble.

The coolness seeps through her socks. 

Strange shapes greet her as she walks, edging forward slowly. Shadows she’s unfamiliar with. The taxidermy animal heads stare at her accusingly, the dark masculinity frightening. The air tastes different.

She reaches the bottom of the stairs. No light comes in from above, it is all darkness. She stares into the maw of a beast. 

She wants to cry. This was a mistake. A mistake, a mistake, a mistake. Oh, Hannibal will be so angry with her.

She walks up the first step.

Ascending into darkness, tears hanging on her eyelashes, Wilhelmina reaches her hand upwards, until it brushes wood. Blindly, she feels her way until it hits the edge.

There’s a small gap between the wood and the concrete. It hasn’t been closed correctly.

Wilhelmina’s ears ring with the silence, head stuffed so full it feels as though it were to explode.

There’s a small handle in the center of the trapdoor. 

She grasps it.

And then, slowly, carefully, she slides the trapdoor back into place. 

It settles with a low thunk, sealing her inside.

Quietly, she retreats back down the steps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am...so sick of the word "pussy" now lmao.


	4. initiative

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal gives Wilhelmina a present.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: chastity, anal plugs, misogyny, underage, starvation
> 
> Hannibal fucks Wilhelmina this chapter. Some time has passed, but I don't specify how old she is so you may determine whether or not she's young enough for it to be considered pedophilia yourself. Also, he gives her blatantly incorrect information about how the human body develops. At the end, Hannibal gets caught and Wilhelmina is left unattended for an indeterminate amount of time without food.

Wilhelmina tries her best to hide it, but the second Hannibal walks in, he raises his nose and takes a deep sniff.

“Darling,” he says, “did you make a mess?”

Wilhelmina guiltily flushes, but doesn’t try to hide it.

“I’m sorry, Hannibal. It was in the night. I don’t know what happened.”

Hannibal tsks.

“It was bound to happen sometime.”

“Am I in trouble?”

“No, but we will need to find a way to take care of this matter. Don’t worry, Daddy has it handled.”

That day, they practice blowjobs again. Wilhelmina has gotten quite good at it, and warms Hannibal’s cock in her mouth as he writes at her desk, one hand reaching down to pet at her head softly in reassurance every now and then.

The next day, he comes back with the chastity device.

Wilhelmina doesn’t kick or fight as he gently slides it into place, the pink, medical-grade silicone held in place by a small padlock. Hannibal slides the key onto a ring and tucks it into his pocket.

“No more messes, all right, Wilhelmina?”

“This will help?”

“Yes. It will keep you from messing at night, and it will teach you to not touch your clitty when you’re not supposed to.”

Wilhelmina looks away and back again. She’d noticed sometimes that if she rubbed up against some of her pillows her clitty would feel funny, but she never went far enough to come—too afraid of making Hannibal angry. She knew by now that Hannibal’s pleasure always comes first. 

“Hannibal, what’s the difference between my clitty and your cock?”

Hannibal settles down on the bed and pats the space between his legs. Wilhelmina slides in, arranging her skirts carefully so they don’t wrinkle, and leans against his chest, listening to the way his voice rumbles deep in his chest.

“There’s no anatomical difference between your clitty and my cock,” Hannibal says. “But we call yours a clitty because you’re a girl. It’s okay to touch cocks, to give them pleasure. But it is forbidden to touch your clitty, unless a man touches it or allows you to.”

Wilhelmina nods, easily accepting this information.

“Hannibal, why don’t I look like the women in the paintings? They don’t have clitties, and I don’t have breasts.”

Hannibal had begun her training in music and art history early, and had shown her many paintings that included nude or partially clothed women. Hannibal could tell that this had been a question that Wilhelmina had been harboring for a long time. Perhaps since he first pointed to the figure of a woman and told her what it was.

“Women are women because they are fucked by men,” Hannibal says. “All women go through training, much like you. Once they are fucked enough, their clitties will go away, because it’s not as important for women to feel pleasure from anything other than their cunts. In addition, once you are of age, breasts will develop. That’s when we’ll know you’re ready to bear my child.”

Wilhelmina’s eyes grow wide.

“A baby?”

“Yes,” Hannibal says, placing a hand on her lower abdomen and rubbing in slow, small circles. “A child. It will grow right here, and we’ll be a family. Together.”

_ Then I wouldn’t be alone anymore, _ Wilhelmina thought to herself.

“When? Will it be a boy? Or a girl like me?”

“When you’re older,” Hannibal says. “And after I’ve fucked you.”

Wilhelmina fists her hand in Hannibal’s shirt, looking up at him with a fire in her eyes.

“I’m ready, Hannibal. You can fuck me now. I’ve been training for this all my life, aren’t I big enough yet?”

Hannibal chuckles and pinches her hip, shifting them both so that their faces are closer. He brushes a curl behind her ear and gives her a deep kiss.

“You are almost ready, my dear little one. Soon. Very soon.”

Wilhelmina drops her head back and lets out a groan.

“You always say that.”

“But I mean it this time,” Hannibal reassures, reaching around to knead at her nape until she relaxes forward and leans her head on his shoulder. “I have one more gift for you today.”

“What is it?”

“You’ll see,” Hannibal says. “Now, be a good girl and show Daddy your pussy.”

Wilhelmina rolls her eyes. “I didn’t touch it. I never do.”

But she clambers off his lap and gets on her knees, flipping up her skirt and leaning forward until her chest touches the bed. She isn’t wearing her panties or tights, because Hannibal had taken them off in order to put on the chastity device. She reaches back with her hands to spread her cheeks apart, revealing the smooth, pink pucker of her asshole.

Hannibal places one hand on her thigh and leans closer to inspect. He runs a finger down the center crease.

“Very good, Wilhelmina. Stay just like that. Daddy is going to give you your gift now.”

He pulls a bottle of lube out of his pocket and dribbles some onto his fingers, rubbing them together to warm it up.

“In order for Daddy to fuck you, Daddy needs to get your pussy ready. You’re still very small,” Hannibal explains, and circles the tip of his finger around Wilhelmina’s tight pucker. “This will feel strange, but you will acclimate to it eventually. It’s to get you ready for my cock.”

He wiggles a finger in, and Wilhelmina makes a small noise.

“Shh, relax. Let Daddy into your nice, tight cunt.”

He feels around for just a moment, before he locates Wilhelmina’s prostate with efficiency. Wilhelmina starts, muscles clenching for a moment then relaxing. She shivers and lets out a low whimper.

“That’s it. Feels good, doesn’t it?”

Wilhelmina nods, breath quickening.

Hannibal gathers her hair to one side and leans down to gently press a kiss to her nape.

“Daddy’s going to take good care of you, little one.”

Wilhelmina bites her lip and squeezes her eyes shut as Hannibal continues to massage her prostate. Eventually, he adds in a second finger. 

“Almost there. You’re doing so well. My perfect little girl.”

Sweat makes the fuzz at the back of Wilhelmina’s neck curl, sticking to her pale skin. She wiggles back and fists her hands in the bedsheets, mindlessly rutting her hips backwards and into Hannibal’s hand. Her clitty twitches valiantly inside its silicone cage, and she twists her hips from side to side in frustration.

Hannibal reaches into his other pocket and pulls out the anal plug.

“Are you ready?”

Wilhelmina nods again, arching her back and spreading her knees wider instinctively as he presses harder into her prostate.

Hannibal slides the plug in, watching the way Wilhelmina’s hole stretches around it, until nothing but the pink, heart-shaped crystal at its base winks up at him, nestled between her cheeks.

“There we go.”

Hannibal smooths her skirts back over her rump, and gently lifts her into her arms. She makes a face, obviously trying to acclimate to the foreign entity inside her body.

“Feels weird.”

“You’ll get used to it.”

“This will help you fuck me?”

“Yes. And that would make me very, very happy.” Hannibal taps her nose and she scrunches it reflexively. 

“Hmmm. Okay,” Wilhelmina loops her arms around Hannibal’s neck and gives him a squeeze. “I guess it’s all right, then.”

* * *

Over the next few days, Hannibal kept Wilhelmina on the butt plug, allowing her to go to the restroom every morning and every night before switching the plug out for other ones of increasingly large sizes. They each had a sparkly, heart-shaped jewel at the base, though of different colors. Wilhelmina got used to it—the feeling of something tucked into her pussy, the sessions where Hannibal would finger her open, leaving her aroused and frustrated and plugged up at the end.

Hannibal would whisper praise in her ear, reach beneath her skirt to press down on the plug, kiss her cheek when she squirmed and panted. 

“A whore,” he’d say. “A dirty slut, good for nothing but fucking.”

Something hot and tingly would settle in Wilhelmina’s belly at the praise. As the days stretched on, her anticipation grew. Hannibal said she was getting good with her mouth, too. That maybe someday she won’t need to speak—her body will be the only thing necessary to bring him joy. That her holes were starting to be well-trained. He called her his perfect little girl, the ultimate slut. It was a heady feeling. She’d never been happier.

Hannibal pulls out the latest plug and inspects her hole with a hum.

“I think you’re ready.”

Wilhelmina stiffens, eyes widening with shock.

Is it happening? Is it finally happening?

Then she arches her back, presenting her ass further, just the way she’d been taught.

What would it feel like? Will Hannibal enjoy it? What if she doesn’t do it right? What if she’s broken, somehow? Would Hannibal abandon her?

Hannibal doesn’t bother with foreplay. He perfunctorily slicks up his cock, taking his time to pump it to hardness. He taught his girl to be patient, polite. Quiet. And she is, waiting with bated breath until he spreads her cheeks with both hands and lines up his cock.

“This, Wilhelmina, is what a man’s cock feels like.”

And he pushes in in one brutal thrust. 

Some days, Hannibal is gentle with her when they play. Others, he demands her gratitude for things she never asked for. He trains her to take it any way its given, to always beg for more regardless of what “more” is. 

Today, he is rough.

Wilhelmina cries out as he pushes in with one long, smooth thrust. He’s big inside her, burning. He lets out a grunt then pulls back, and sinks back in. Back out, back in. Wilhelmina bites her knuckles, tears streaming down her red cheeks as his fingers dig into her slender hips, bruising them.

* * *

_ Dear Mischa, _

_ Today, Hannibal fucked me for the first time. I am so happy. I’ve finally become a real woman. _

_ It was everything I’d ever dreamed of. _

* * *

Wilhelmina braces her hands against the wall, one leg lifted and hooked around Hannibal’s elbow. He spreads her wide and she whimpers, grinding back as he pounds into her. His cock glances off of her prostate and a frisson of want runs through her.

“Please,” she begs, “please, please Hannibal—let me—”

* * *

_ Dear Mischa, _

_ Hannibal says the next thing I need to learn is how to come with just my pussy. I don’t really understand—it’s not my job to come, it’s my job to make Hannibal come. But if Hannibal says that’s what I should do, then I guess that’s what I will do. I hope I won’t disappoint. _

* * *

Hannibal sucks a dark bruise onto her neck. His cock drools onto the insides of her skirts, a pale green today. 

“Do you like being bred by me? By a man?”

Wilhelmina nods frantically, eyes squeezed shut. “Yes, Hannibal!”

“You like it when I spill my seed into your womb?”

“Yes, Hannibal!”

“Going to grow fat with my children?”

“Yes, Hannibal!”

* * *

_ Dear Mischa, _

_ Hannibal fucked me again today. I liked it. This time we got all our clothes off. It was nice, feeling his skin against mine. _

* * *

Wilhelmina pants, skin shiny and sticky. She looks up at Hannibal’s face, reaches up and cards her fingers through his hair. His next thrust is particularly forceful and it knocks the breath out of her, her nails scratching against his scalp.

He leans down and kisses her as his cock twitches inside of her, releasing his seed.

“Do you love me, Wilhelmina?”

She kisses him back.

“More than anything, Hannibal.”

* * *

_ Dear Mischa, _

_ Hannibal penetrated me with both a dildo (a fake penis) and his own cock today. It took a long time to get me ready, but it was worth it. Maybe one day, Hannibal will bring a friend over. I wonder what other men look like? Do they look like Hannibal? I’d like to meet another girl, too… _

* * *

_ Dear Mischa, _

_ Hannibal showed me what a breeding bench was today. It was particularly taxing, being unable to move. I don’t like it. But Hannibal does, so that’s okay, I suppose. I came three times on the vibrator. Hannibal does love to challenge me. I can only hope that one day he’ll deem me worthy enough to bring outside… _

* * *

_ Dear Mischa, _

_ Hannibal is late today. I wonder what happened? _

* * *

_ Dear Mischa, _

_ It has been two days. Hannibal has not come home. I have water from the tap, but I have no food… I hope nothing’s happened to him. _

* * *

_ Dear Mischa, _

_ Hannibal couldn’t have forgotten about me, could he? That’s not possible. He loves me… He said so. _

* * *

_ Dear Mischa, _

_ I don’t know what I’m being punished for. _

* * *

_ Dear Mischa, _

_ I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please tell Hannibal that. I’m sorry, I don’t know what I did, but I promise I’ll be good. Please, just come home, Hannibal. Please. _

* * *

_ Dear Mischa, _

_ I am so hungry. _

* * *

_ Dear Mischa, _

_ If Hannibal doesn’t want me anymore, then what am I even living for? _

* * *

_ Dear Mischa, _

_ I can’t stand this. I can’t do this anymore. _

* * *

* * *

When they ask Wilhelmina how long she’d been in Hannibal’s basement, she couldn’t answer them. She didn’t know how old she was, what date or year it was, or where she’d come from.

Even weakened from hunger as she was, in order to carry her across the threshold, they needed to sedate her.

When they checked the records, they discovered that it had been eleven years since William Graham had been adopted by Hannibal Lecter. 

They do not tell Wilhelmina that Hannibal Lecter had been detained under suspicion of multiple accounts of first degree murder, and cannibalism.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and now things will get really complicated.


	5. free will, pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilhelmina is taken to the hospital and assigned a therapist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: abuse, conversion therapy, misgendering
> 
> Warnings mainly pertain to Wilhelmina's interactions with her therapist, Dr. Sterne. Dr. Sterne believes, or at least acts like she believes, she is helping Wilhelmina by trying to train her into acting more like a boy. Her logic is that Hannibal is the one who brainwashed her into being a girl (true), and therefore the only way for Wilhelmina to recover is to become a boy to shed everything Hannibal taught her. Wilhelmina is resistant. Dr. Sterne's methods turn out to be abusive.

“Eleven years ago, Hannibal Lecter adopts William Graham. Hannibal applied to have his name changed to William Lecter, but according to the records, William Lecter died in a car crash soon after adoption. Hannibal came out unscathed. The orphanage was contacted, and William Lecter’s body was identified based on clothing and a stuffed animal, which he was buried with. Whatever Hannibal Lecter used as a replacement for William Graham’s body worked, because they didn’t bother taking dental records. The crash happened before the first check-in with social services.”

Jack Crawford sighs, resisting the urge to drop his head down in his hands. Beverly purses her lips, but drops the report down on his desk.

“That’s about all we have. The file on the kid isn’t very thick.”

“But he’s secured?”

“Accounted for and taken care of.”

“Just…” Jack sighs. “Get him a damn therapist. Someone who can get him to testify against Hannibal Lecter. That’s the key part. We need his testimony. He must’ve picked up on something.”

Eleven years with only Hannibal Lecter for company. What a nightmare. Jack couldn’t even imagine what that might be like. 

“That kid’s gonna be all kinds of fucked up,” Zeller remarks.

Jack and Beverly give him a sharp look, while Price simply raises an eyebrow.

“What? You know it’s true.”

“That’s why we’re getting him a therapist,” Jack says, slowly. 

“Well, actually, I believe she prefers being referred to with female pronouns,” Price pipes up.

“Because that’s what the kid wants? Or because that’s what Hannibal Lecter told him—her—that that’s what he—or she—needed to do?”

They all look at each other, at a loss.

That’s the big question, isn’t it?

* * *

Wilhelmina sits, shivering and shaking. They gave her a t-shirt and pants to wear. She hates them. Hannibal always said pants were for boys, and she isn’t a boy. She hates them.

The room she’s in is painted in calming colors, with carefully-interesting-but-not-provoking decor. But that doesn’t erase the fact that she knows there’s a guard right outside the door. She can see him—the door is to remain open, they said. They are always watching. The open door is an anomaly—she’s used to her closed doors, her walls with no windows. This room has a window.

She stares out of it, lost.

They’d sedated her when they brought her out, and ever since she’d been in the hospital, until she’d been moved here. Not much time to look outside.

The sky is scattered with clouds. And blue.

(She’d forgotten.)

After living in a pink room for who knows how long, after making countless drawings (though her current drawings are much more sophisticated than the crayon scribbles she’d first gifted Hannibal) of what she imagined the outside would be like (green grass, pink sky), she’d completely, utterly forgotten. It wasn’t as though she hadn’t seen representations of a blue sky in artworks that Hannibal had shown her in his books, it was just… It was as though she’d expected Hannibal’s room would extend even out here, somehow. Constantly there to shield her. Guide her. In her dreams, it had always been like the dawning day. A soft pink.

She misses Hannibal. She wants to see him.

There’s a click-clack sound coming from the hallway, and it draws closer. Shoes. A woman (she has breasts) appears in the doorway and gives her a considering look over the edge of wire-rimmed glasses. She has pepper-grey hair in a short bob, and wears a creme shirt paired with a dark blue blazer and skirt.

“You must be William,” she says, and the severe curve of her mouth shapes the words into disapproval.

“No,” Wilhelmina says.

“No?”

“My name is Wilhelmina.”

The woman’s eyebrows draw together, her lips purse. She reaches up with one hand to adjust her glasses higher so that she can look down her nose at Wilhelmina, and to resist the urge to say or do something else to fill the silence.

“You will call me Dr. Sterne.” Her lips shrivel up, as though she were holding back something else, and is displeased about it.

“Will you call me Wilhelmina?”

Dr. Sterne pulls a chair out from behind the desk, rolling it to the center of the room. She sits down, clipboard in hand, crossing her legs and clicking her pen.

“You’ve just been released from bed rest. You must be tired. Would you like something to drink?”

Wilhelmina blinks at her. She’s careful to school her facial features, and tilts her head to regard the other woman with a wide-eyed scrutiny. To show her what it feels like, to be on the other end of the microscope. The woman doesn’t appear discomfited, but her hands clench. Will reads affront in the tightened corners of her eyes.

“You want me to talk about Hannibal.”

Dr. Sterne doesn’t even try to hide the flicker of disgust that passes through her, shoulders rising and falling as she tenses and forces herself to relax.

“That man is the reason you’re here,” she says. “But first, tell me about yourself.”

“My name is Wilhelmina. I am Hannibal Lecter’s adoptive daughter. I know how to play the harpsichord, the theremin, and the cello. I am adept at watercolor and drawing in charcoal, but am still learning how to oil paint. My favorite play is William Shakespeare’s  _ As You Like It. _ My favorite color is pink. And I don’t know why you’re punishing me. I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Punishing you?”

Wilhelmina clenches her hands in the fabric of her pants.

“I would like a dress to wear, please. This is humiliating. I am not a child.”

“Why do you want to wear a dress?”

Wilhelmina gapes at her. Does she think Wilhelmina knows nothing, having been with only Hannibal all her life?

“Because I’m a girl,” she states plainly.

“No, you’re not. That’s simply what that man told you. I would like to get to know  _ you, _ William. Who you are without that man.”

Who she is...without Hannibal?

Wilhelmina stares at her, stunned. Her mind whirls, trying to process what she’s been told.

“My name is Wilhelmina. Not… Not William.” She feels very faint.

“Your name is William. You are not Hannibal Lecter’s adoptive daughter. You are not Hannibal Lecter’s anything. You and that man no longer have any connection. You will not be getting a dress to wear, ever again. And your favorite color is not pink.”

Anger and frustration wells up, hot and sudden in Wilhelmina’s chest.

“And why can’t my favorite color be pink?”

“Because you are a  _ boy.  _ Everything that man taught you is  _ wrong.  _ But do not worry, I am here to help you get out from under the evil, sick influence he’s placed upon you. We will train you out of those perverted habits he’s enforced. I am here to help you be your true self, William.”

“And you think you know better than I do what my true self should be?”

“I know what it should  _ not _ be. I am here to guide you.”

“By trying to make me someone I’m not?”

“By correcting you.”

“I’m not broken,” Wilhelmina insists, and she knows the moment the words leave her mouth that it’s the wrong thing to say.

Dr. Sterne’s face softens for the first time since she’s walked into the room. It’s pity. It sits, sticky-sweet and putrid at the back of Wilhelmina’s throat.

“Oh, William. One day, you’ll thank me.”

_ No, _ Wilhelmina thinks.  _ No, I don’t think I will. _

* * *

“Sort these into your likes and dislikes.”

Dr. Sterne places a small stack of cards in front of Wilhelmina. She watches with a shrewd, calculating eye as Wilhelmina slowly flips the first card.

It’s a picture of a horse. It’s been labelled “Pony”. It’s grey, with a white saddle and bridle with gold trim.

She slides the card to the right.

The next one is a picture of a race-car. It’s a daring blue color, with flame decals along its sides.

She slides the card to the left.

A dress with frills and a lace trim and small, red bows down the chest.

Right.

A charcoal grey suit with a brown, striped tie.

Left.

A puppy.

Right.

A cat.

Right.

A “football”.

Left.

Knitting needles and yarn.

Left.

A pink card.

Right.

A blue card.

Right.

A smiling baby.

Right.

A stack of notebooks.

Right.

A fierce dragon.

Wilhelmina pauses. What was the correct answer, here? In all the stories the dragon was the enemy, but...

She slides it to the right.

A unicorn.

Right.

A fishing rod.

Left.

A “golf club”.

Left.

She continues like that for a while, sliding cards left and right, until she has two neat stacks.

“Which pile is your likes?”

She indicates the right, sliding it back across the table, closer to Dr. Sterne.

Dr. Sterne flips through the cards. Frowns. Flips some more. Frowns.

“Most of these are incorrect,” she says.

“You asked me about my preferences.”

“And you answered incorrectly.”

“There is no such thing as an incorrect preference. Preference is a matter of taste and opinion.”

“Did Hannibal Lecter let you choose your preferences?”

Wilhelmina is silent.

No, he hadn’t. He’d told Wilhelmina that her preferences didn’t matter that men rightfully wouldn’t care about what she wanted as long as she let them fuck her.

She knows what Dr. Sterne would say to that. It’s been a few days already, and every time Dr. Sterne has the same things to say. That Hannibal had controlled her, brainwashed her. That she needed to fight his influence.

But how is this any different?

Who was this woman, to determine whether or not Hannibal raised her the right or wrong way? And why is her way supposedly better?

Wilhelmina likes pink. She likes dresses. She knows that that’s at least in part because Hannibal told her she’s  _ supposed _ to, but does that doesn’t make it any less true. Do her feelings about it not matter? Are they  _ wrong? _

Is everything about  _ Wilhelmina _ wrong?

But, Hannibal had promised. He’d promised he’d never lie to her. And Hannibal is all she’d ever known. How could she believe this woman, who claimed to know her but didn’t, over the man who’d raised her, cared for her, taught her everything she knew?

“It seems that our sessions haven’t been working,” Dr. Sterne says. “You know what I expect, and yet you’re determined to disappoint.”

“I wasn’t raised a liar,” Wilhelmina retorts.

“I’m not asking you to lie. I’m asking you to change.”

“‘Change cannot be forced. It can be influenced, suggested. But it must come organically, or at least appear to.’”

“You are speaking of manipulation.”

“So are you. Your methods are simply inelegant and obvious.”

_ Unlike Hannibal’s, _ goes unsaid.

Dr. Sterne leans back in her chair, folding her hands in her lap, regarding Wilhelmina with a calm and cool collectedness. It’s a psychiatrist move—Wilhelmina knows it well. Hannibal did it all the time.

“I can’t help you if you don’t want to help yourself, William.”

Wilhelmina grits her teeth.

“I don’t need  _ your _ help.”

“My help is all you’re going to get. Might as well accept it.”

“Therapy only works on the willing.”

“Then be willing.”

“It also only works when we have a genuine desire to know ourselves as we are. Not as we would like to be.”

“Would you not like to be better?”

“That’s a subjective term. And the point is: that’s irrelevant.”

“Your idea of who you truly are isn’t correct.”

“We will continue to disagree on that.”

“What I think you need is a bigger reminder of who that person is.”

“Are you even listening?”

Dr. Sterne sighs through her nose, in an apparently regretful manner.

“All right. Try again.”

She picks up the stacks of cards, shuffles them, and puts them in front of Wilhelmina again. Then, she opens the drawer beneath the desk and pulls out a headset, and plugs it into a small device that Wilhelmina had never seen before.

“Your right, likes. My right, dislikes. Now put the headphones on.”

Wilhelmina eyes her warily, but does as told.

First card. “Football”. She reaches for it with her left hand.

And flinches so hard she bangs her shin against the leg of her chair.

Her ears ring in the aftermath of the shrill blare that had been funnelled through the headset and directly into her ears. Her vision shook with it.

She reaches a hand out to steady herself against the desk and Dr. Sterne hits the button again, shocking Wilhelmina so much she nearly topples over, face white as sheet.

Wilhelmina had lived most of her life in silence. If she was lucky, Hannibal would leave some records for her to listen to. She loved those days. But that was not most days. Most days, she only had four walls and her own voice.

When she’d woken in the hospital, she remembers being overwhelmed by the sheer amount of  _ noise _ that the outside world held. Shoes squeaking, wheels rolling, voices, the rustling of cloth, the ticking of a clock  _ (ticktockticktockticktocktick—) _ , machines buzzing. Even muted by distance, faraway car horns startled her from sleep. 

“Try again.”

Shoulders hiked up to her ears, Wilhelmina reaches for the card again.

## B L E E P.

“Again.”

Wilhelmina doesn’t move, head ringing.

In this moment, Dr. Sterne’s face takes on the disapproving mask that she’d so feared coming from Hannibal. Wilhelmina swallows, eyes trained on the downturned curve of Dr. Sterne’s lips. She thinks about simply—taking the headset off.

But, for some reason, the idea fills her with terror. Disobedience was never something Hannibal had allowed her, ever. She hates this woman. She doesn’t like what she tells her, doesn’t believe her, doesn’t agree with her. But she knows this woman is a figure of authority, from the way she carries herself around Wilhelmina to the way the guards regard her when she walks into the room.

She can’t disobey.

“I said. Again.”

Shakily, she reaches for the card—

## B L E E P.

“I—I don’t know w-what you—”

“But you do. You’re simply being stubborn.”

Wilhelmina lifts her hand again, and stops. Puts it back down. Dr. Sterne moves her finger away from the button.

She lifts her other hand, her right, and slowly reaches it forward.

_ Football, _ the card reads.

She slides it to the right.

Next card.

The pony.

She lifts her han—

## B L E E P.

Left. This one should be left? She lifts her left hand this time. Nothing. She exhales, slides the card to the left.

Suit.

She knows the answer for this one. It’s right. It should be right. Under “likes”. But she also understands, just as keenly, that that’s  _ wrong. _ Girls don’t wear suits. They may like them on men, but they don’t like them for themselves. Just like girls don’t like pants, and they like ponies, and, Wilhelmina supposes, they dislike “football”.

_ “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you, Wilhelmina? No, not my good little girl.” _

Her breath quickens. She lifts her right hand. Places it on the card.

_ “I wasn’t raised a liar.” _

She slides it to the left.

## B L E E E E E E E P.

This time, the sound comes with a sharp smack, a ruler against the back of her hand. Wilhelmina freezes, unmoving. The skin on the back of her hand smarts, reddens.

“You knew the correct answer, and you deliberately chose wrong. Are these punishments not enough?”

Wilhelmina’s eyes water.

“No.”

“No, they’re not enough?”

“No!”

## B L E E E E E E E E E E E E E E E E E E E E E E E E E P.

Wilhelmina bursts into tears, hands clutching at the headset. But still, she does not remove them.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Apparently, not sorry enough.”

Dr. Sterne rises to her feet. In her hand is a pair of scissors.

Wilhelmina’s breath quickens as Dr. Sterne circles the desk and slips behind her, hands resting heavily on her scrunched shoulders.

The hospital only allowed short showers, each resident taking turns. There was no conditioner, only shampoo. Wilhelmina’s long, curly locks frizzed and became difficult to handle, so she’d kept it in a french braid.

Dr. Sterne grips the braid in one hand, and holds the scissors in the other.

“I think it’s time we did something about this, don’t you? If you are to be who you’re meant to be, you must look the part.”

Wilhelmina’s breath hitches in panic. She tries to twist around, to plead, to beg, but Dr. Sterne gives her braid a harsh yank in retribution.

“Hold still. This won’t take long.”

Already, she’d begun sawing through the thick braid. Parts of Wilhelmina’s hair begin to come loose, falling around her ears.

“No, please, please, please stop.”

Wilhelmina’s hands come up behind her head, in an attempt to somehow hold her hair in place, to bring the severed strands back together. Dr. Sterne gives her hair another yank, this time whipping her head to the side, and a sharp whack to one of her hands with the flat of the scissor blades.

“You’ll thank me later.”

A sob rips free from Wilhelmina’s throat, and at last, the rest of her braid comes free.

Dr. Sterne walks back around the desk, lifts the braid so it dangles in the air, looks Wilhelmina in the eye, and drops it into the trashcan.

“Now that that frivolous business is behind us, I hope you’ll find it within yourself to behave. Now. Continue.”

Wilhelmina stares at the stack of cards, eyes red, hands trembling. The next card sits there, waiting to be flipped.

She flips it.

A puppy.

Her hands lie on either side of the card, flat on the table. Still.

Which one? Right? Or left?

Were puppies only for girls? Wilhelmina didn’t think so. But how was she to know? She’d never seen a real one, only paintings and pictures and Winston. What if she was wrong? Is she allowed to like puppies? She doesn’t know.

Her breath seizes in her chest. What does she do? What does she do?

Finally, shakily, she takes the headset off. Dr. Sterne narrows her eyes.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

The only thing she knows how to do. The only thing that works, her last resort. The thing that Hannibal had taught her how to do best, the one thing that makes sense,  _ has _ to make sense. The only thing that ever worked when Hannibal was truly angry with her.

She stands, and Dr. Sterne’s eyes widen with—apprehension? Fear. Her hands clench in her lap.

“N-now, look here, there are guards right outside the door—”

Wilhelmina turns, and pushes her chair further back, to make space.

“—If you think you can get away with—with—”

Wilhelmina shoves her sweats and underwear to her knees. She bends over. She grips the chair between her hands. She arches her back, presenting her ass as best as she can.

“Please,” she says, dully. “I want it. Fuck me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as u may have noticed, the chapter count went up. this just seemed like a good ending place, so i've divvied up the rest differently. i hope to get the next chapter up within a week, but i havent actually started writing it yet (for this fic thus far ive been staying one chapter ahead of schedule but i fell behind this time) so dont be surprised if it comes late.
> 
> (also...sorry abt the sloppy writing...i tried...i was actually super excited to write this part and then it flopped when i tried to write it sighs)


	6. free will, pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alana Bloom enters. Wilhelmina gets some actual therapy. But does it work?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: mentions of abuse, brief willana
> 
> There's not much in the way of warnings this chapter. You and Wilhelmina get a bit of a break. (But only...a bit. Until the drama at the end, that is.)

“— _ your _ fault, Jack, this should  _ not _ have happened—”

“—I didn’t know, I had other things—”

“—you gave her a  _ conversion therapist _ that is  _ more _ than just an oversight—”

“—calm down, Alana—”

“—can’t believe you, Jack—”

The room they have her in now is barren. There’s a large mirror covering half of one wall, and she’s seated at a metal table. The claustrophobic walls remind her of home. She likes it better than Dr. Sterne’s office.

“—not going to get information out of her if she doesn’t trust any of you—”

“—running out of time, they’re speeding up the trial dates because they want it over quickly—”

“—too soon, Jack. Let me handle this my way—”

“—need that testimony, Alana, and soon—”

“—out of this. She’s been through enough. These things take time—”

“—Time we don’t have!”

“—final, Jack. You won’t get anything out of rushing this. I’m taking her case.”

Wilhelmina doesn’t look up when she walks in. Not until she calls her name.

“Wilhelmina?”

Her head snaps up at that. It’s the first time she’s heard her name from someone else’s mouth since being taken from Hannibal.

_ Remember your manners, Wilhelmina. _

“Yes.” She sits up straighter, resisting the urge to smooth down skirts she isn’t wearing. “Wilhelmina Lecter. And if I may ask, what should I call you?”

The woman’s mouth quirks up, and she settles down in the chair across from Wilhelmina in one smooth motion, crossing her legs underneath the table.

“I’m Alana Bloom. I’m going to be your new psychiatrist.”

Wilhelmina nods again, and looks away, towards her reflection behind Alana. She reaches up to touch her shorn locks, observes the gauntness of her face. She barely recognizes herself, and it’s disconcerting.

“Hannibal is a psychiatrist.”

Alana does a good job of keeping her expression neutral, but Wilhelmina catches the look that passes over her eyes at the mention of Hannibal.

“He is. Was. He was my mentor at John Hopkins.”

“He’s very good, isn’t he?”

“What makes you say that?”

“You mean: how would I know that, since I’ve been trapped in a basement all my life?”

Alana’s face twists wryly. Wilhemina finds that she likes her, the way she takes her bluntness in a stride and with good humor.

“Did you find it strange, that you never got to leave?”

“I didn’t want to leave, so I never questioned it.”

“Never?”

Wilhelmina hesitates.

“Hannibal was very good to me.”

Alana acknowledges her statement with a subtle nod, but doesn’t agree.

“He taught you a lot of things.”

“He taught me everything.”

Wilhelmina gives her a challenging look as she says it, before dropping her eyes. Alana lets her words settle over them, but doesn’t react. She simply absorbs.

“You sounded a bit like him, you know. He’s always held good manners in high priority.”

“He was strict, but not unfair.”

“Justification doesn’t always equal fairness.”

Wilhelmina bites her lip, darts her eyes to and away from Alana’s face.

“It’s fair if you agree on the terms.”

“Folie à deux.”

Wilhelmina shrugs.

“I might not have seen much of humanity, but from what I’ve gathered so far—isn’t everyone a little mad, anyway?”

Alana leans forward, reaching out to place one hand over Wilhelmina’s.

“Dr. Sterne isn’t a good representation of what the rest of society is like. Don’t give up on us, yet, Wilhelmina. There are good people out there. Good people that you could form meaningful connections with.”

Wilhelmina stares at their hands. Hers is pale, ghostly. Alana is fair, but her skin still bears the tint of sunlight. She’s warm, her touch gentle, reassuring.

“Are you volunteering, Dr. Bloom?”

“I would hope that you would come to trust me, eventually. I’m here to help.”

“That’s what they all say. But all they want is for me to change. To be someone I’m not.”

_ To betray Hannibal. _

“Change is good. But I’m not here to force you to do anything you don’t want to do.”

“Then can I see Hannibal?”

Alana tenses, drawing away her hand. Wilhelmina feels cold in its absence.

“Probably not for a very long time, I’m afraid.”

Wilhelmina nods, as though she’d expected that answer. She did, on some level. Whenever she’d asked before, she was ignored. But still, she finds herself spiralling.

_ Is Hannibal okay? Is he mad at me? Are they hurting him? Will he be okay without me, or does he have someone else he can fuck? _

_ …Does he? _

_ Does he still love me? _

Wilhelmina tries her best to keep her expression still, but to her horror, she finds herself unable to hold back. She bites her lip, hard, to keep her jaw from trembling. She blinks, rapidly, to no avail. She begins to cry.

_ What if Hannibal doesn’t want to see me? What if Hannibal doesn’t want me anymore? _

Alana stands up quietly and walks around the table. She kneels by Wilhelmina and places a hand on her back.

“It’s okay, Wilhelmina. It’s okay to cry. Things are going to be difficult for awhile, but I promise you, it will get better. I’m going to help you. Together, we can get through this.”

_ But I don’t want to get through this, _ Wilhelmina thinks, hysterically.  _ I want to go back. I want Hannibal. _

When Wilhelmina quiets down, Alana rises slowly and retrieves a bag from next to her chair.

“I wasn’t sure what to bring, but I thought you’d appreciate something familiar.”

Wilhelmina peaks inside the bag and freezes, breath catching. Her hand shakes as she reaches in and pulls out a well-known, well-loved toy.

“Winston,” she breathes.

“Is that his name?” Alana asks, smiling softly.

“Sir Winston Leopold von Edelhard the Second,” Wilhelmina recites dutifully.

“You like dogs?”

Wilhelmina nods.

Sometimes she thinks she can remember a time before Hannibal. Just a fuzzy memory of her hands passing through warm fur, maybe the warm wetness of a tongue licking her cheek. She doesn’t know if it’s real, but something about it makes her smile.

“I have a dog. Her name’s Applesauce. I’m getting her training to be a support animal, but maybe I’ll bring her around sometime.”

Wilhelmina looks down shyly, and clutches Winston to her chest, pressing her face into his soft fur and inhaling deeply.

“If it’s no trouble, I’d like that very much.”

Alana’s lips quirk up again in that soft smile. It isn’t pitying, or patronizing. It’s simply gentle, fond.

“It’s no trouble at all, Wilhelmina.”

* * *

They give her a dress. Well, more than one dress. Nothing as fancy as what Hannibal had had her wear, but it comforts Wilhelmina anyway. The other women at Port Haven sometimes look at her strangely, as though discomfited by her appearance there, but Alana had warned her that some of them might not “understand” why she’s there.

In truth, it terrifies her. Being around other people terrifies her, especially when there is more than one person in the room. She isn’t sure who to watch, where to look, how to know who was in charge, what to look out for. It’s too much.

So she stays in her room. It seems her ambivalence is shared, because no one but the nurses bother her. 

“How are you feeling today, Wilhelmina?” Alana asks.

“I’m well,” Wilhelmina answers, tone carefully even and placid.

Alana nods.

“I’m glad to hear that. I know it must be a difficult transition, but we’ll work on slowly acclimating you back into society, okay? You don’t need to push yourself, but I want you to know that Port Haven is a safe place.”

Wilhemina nods amicably.

“I also want you to know that you can share anything with me. You don’t need to be ashamed of how you feel or what you think around me. I’m not here to judge; that’s not my job.”

“You spend a lot of time reassuring me.”

“Does that make you uncomfortable?”

“You would only do that if I were doing something wrong.”

Alana pauses. 

“Did Hannibal do that?”

“No,” Wilhelmina answers. “He just told me what I did, and then I fixed it.”

“Did he explain why?”

“Of course.”

“Did you have a choice?”

Wilhelmina frowns. “A choice?”

“The choice to disagree.”

“Of course. That choice is always there. But I didn’t take it.”

“Why not?”

“He was always right. Because he is a man.”

Alana breathes out slowly.

“Did he tell you that?”

“I didn’t need to be told.”

“Well, it isn’t true.”

Wilhelmina blinks at the bald statement. “What do you mean?”

“I told you that Hannibal was my mentor at John Hopkins, right?”

Wilhelmina nods.

“Hannibal had always advocated for women’s rights on campus. He believed that women were just as capable as their male peers, and that prejudice against women was a major factor holding back society’s progress.”

Wilhelmina’s frown deepens. “Well, yes. I know. Women are just as important to society as men. Without women to fuck, how are men supposed to be able to maintain their morale?”

Alana stiffens. She takes a moment—just a moment—to calm herself before continuing.

“What Hannibal taught you, and what he actually believed, are different. Or at the very least, it was different from how he acted when he wasn’t with you. Either way, he had to have been deceiving one of us.”

“And you believe that was me?” Wilhelmina bristled. 

“I believe he deceived everyone. But you, most of all.”

“Hannibal detests liars.”

“He wanted to control you.”

“He had every right to.”

She does a very good job of hiding it, but Wilhelmina can see Alana is growing frustrated.

“No, he didn’t. No one has the right to control you the way he did.”

They don’t make much more progress that day.

* * *

“Tell me about Winston.”

Wilhelmina looks down at the stuffed animal clutched in her lap, one hand tenderly stroking one of its ears.

“He was a gift from Hannibal.”

Well, technically all of her possessions had been gifts from Hannibal.

“What makes him special to you?”

“Don’t you know? You picked him out from all the rest. You could tell.”

Alana’s amusement and pleasure at her reply pass over her face in a small smile.

“You take very good care of your things. Out of everything, Winston was the only toy that looked like he’d had a bit of…love.”

How does she explain?

How does she say in words how Winston is proof, undeniable proof that Hannibal  _ cares? _ That all the other gifts he’d given her had been with an image of her in mind, the image of the Wilhelmina he’d dreamed she’d become and that she strove for daily, but ultimately wasn’t really her at all? How does she explain that everything else, like the cock cage and the butt plugs and the dresses that she didn’t get to choose, had all been gifts to her but for Hannibal himself?

Winston is different. Winston had been bought and gifted to her with  _ Wilhelmina _ in mind, specifically. There was no hidden expectation or code in Winston that she had to decipher so that she would know how she was expected to behave.

She knew how it would sound, if she said that out loud. She knew that Alana would look at her with pity, would look at Winston as though he weren’t enough. But he was enough for Wilhelmina. Hannibal’s proof of love wasn’t grand, but it was there. She wasn’t delusional or imagining it. Winston was proof. Winston was proof.

Wilhelmina rises to her feet, walking in circles around the room. She pauses, back turned.

“Tell me about Hannibal. About how he was with you,” she says instead. Alana takes the change in subject without protest, but Wilhelmina can tell she hasn’t forgotten about it yet.

“He was polite. Charming. Eccentric and charismatic. He had this special way of making you want his attention. People flocked around him, and he handled their regard with grace. He… He had us all fooled.”

Wilhelmina runs a finger down the spine of one of Alana’s books. It’s spine is cracked and faded. She doesn’t recognize the title.

“Not fooled. Hannibal doesn’t lie. What he showed you was the truth, it just wasn’t all of it. It’s like a magic trick. He directed your attention to the human veil, so you wouldn’t see what lay behind it. But the human veil is still a part of him, too.”

“You wouldn’t consider that magic trick deception?”

Wilhelmina half turns, speaking over her shoulder. She still avoids eye contact.

“He never hid. Not really. It’s just that no one wanted to see.”

“Misdirection.”

“Misdirection,” Wilhelmina agrees.

“But did you see, Wilhelmina? Did you know what he was?”

Wilhelmina remembers the hawk-like way Hannibal would watch her eat. The way his eyes glittered when he smiled. The smooth way he walked. The way sometimes she’d turn and he’d be there, and the way sometimes he telegraphed his movements as though he were trying to appear less like a predator.

“I… I didn’t know everything,” she says, carefully. “When he was with me he was my mentor. My daddy. My teacher. He played all his roles as he had to, like how he expected me to play my role, as I have to. But I could see that there was more. He knew that I could see it. And he liked that I didn’t look away.”

“He never brought anyone else with him?”

“Never.” Alana’s shoulders drop in relief, just slightly. “Just things I needed. Gifts, clothes, watercolors, books. Food.”

Alana stiffens again, swallowing.

“So you didn’t really know much about what he did.”

“My entire life, I’ve only known what he’s told me. But he liked to test me sometimes, to see what else I could pick up on. Things that he didn’t say out loud. But there’s only so much that inference could tell me.”

“Hannibal always liked his little games.”

Wilhelmina moves to Alana’s desk, right behind her. Alana doesn’t turn to look, simply letting her examine the stapler, the paper clips, the pens.

“He liked you, too, you know,” Wilhelmina says. “I can tell. You were a good player, weren’t you?”

Alana looks to the side. Wilhelmina turns to look at her face, and reads grief and betrayal in the tightening around her eyes.

“I was…fond of him, too,” Alana admitted. “But, Wilhelmina, you must understand. I can’t forgive him. Not for what he did. Especially not for what he did to you.”

“He never hurt me,” Wilhelmina tries to reassure.

Alana looks at her with wet eyes and reaches forward, grasping Wilhelmina’s hand gently with her own.

“Oh, but he did, Wilhelmina. He did. I know you don’t see that, but he did horrible things to you.”

Wilhelmina’s eyes flutter at the soft touch. Alana’s hand is so warm. So soft. Her eyes so gentle, so caring.

“You want to take care of me. To protect me.”

Alana gives her an achingly tender look.

“I want to help you,” she says. Wilhelmina moves in front of her, still holding her hand. “I want you to be able to be happy. Out here, in this world. It’s a wonderful world, Wilhelmina. You have so much left to see.”

Wilhelmina slowly sinks to her knees, until she’s gazing up at Alana. Alana’s brows twitch together in confusion. Wilhelmina takes Alana’s hand, and places it on her cheek. She leans into it, and then lets go. Alana keeps her hand there, unmoving, touch barely-there.

“Wilhelmina?”

Wilhelmina looks up at her through her lashes.

“You want to fix it. You think that by fixing me, you can fix what Hannibal broke in you.”

Alana flinches back. Wilhelmina leans forward, following her movement.

“It’s okay, you know. I miss Hannibal, too, but I think it would be okay, if it was you.”

“Wilhelmina,” she says, again. She sounds pained. “That’s not what I want. It’s… It’s not about me.”

Her voice shakes, a little. “It’s about what’s best for  _ you.” _

Wilhelmina smiles, and leans in closer.

“You’re allowed to think about what you want for yourself, you know,” Alana continues. “You don’t have to worry about me, or Jack, or Hannibal, or anyone else.”

Wilhelmina stares into Alana’s eyes. Their faces are close. Her eyes drift down to Alana’s lips, and back up. Alana doesn’t move.

Wilhelmina leans forward, and kisses her. It’s soft, wet. Alana’s lips part in a subtle gasp. Her hand is still on Wilhelmina’s cheek. Wilhelmina draws back, and gives Alana her first smile in weeks.

“I’d like that,” Wilhelmina says. “I think it would be okay for you to teach me about this world. Hannibal taught you, after all. You can be my new Daddy.”

Alana stands abruptly, knocking her chair back. She draws her hand back, clutching it with the other.

“Wilhelmina.” She’s breathing hard. Wilhelmina frowns a bit. She doesn’t understand the tone. “Wilhelmina, that’s not what I’m here to do. I’m not—I’m not here to replace Hannibal.”

“Why not?”

“Because what Hannibal did to you was…was...”

“But you want me, don’t you?”

Wilhelmina reaches for Alana’s hand again, but Alana draws back.

“No,” Alana says. “That’s not…”

“But you do,” Wilhelmina says, vehement. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be so kind.”

Alana’s face shutters, then crumples.

“…What do you mean?”

“I’m not stupid, you know. I liked it. I like that you’re nice to me, and that you listen to me, and that you care about me. But the only reason you’d do that is if you wanted to fuck me.”

“No. No, no, no, no. Wilhelmina, Wilhelmina listen to me.”

Alana crouches down so that they’re level with each other.

“I don’t know what Hannibal did to you to make you think this, but kindness isn’t just a way to… to ask for sex. There aren’t always ulterior motives. Not everything is one of Hannibal’s games.”

Wilhelmina shrinks back.

“You don’t want me?”

Alana’s hand hovers in between them. It holds, then falls, without reaching her.

“Then what’s the point?” Wilhelmina snaps. She stands, pacing back and forth. “Why am I here, then? What am I supposed to do, if you’re not going to fuck me?”

Alana stands, too, crossing her arms and looking away, so that her hair hides her face. She needs a moment, to compose herself.

“Is that what he told you? That you’re only good for sex?”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing. Why? Sex feels good. It makes people happy. And I’m good at it.”

“You’re still a child,” Alana moans. “Just a child.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Everything! Everything, Wilhelmina.”

Wilhelmina scowls, clenching her fists by her sides.

“I don’t want to be here anymore. I want to go see Hannibal.”

Alana covers her mouth. Her face is red, especially around the eyes.

“You can’t.”

_ “Why?” _

“I won’t allow it.”

Wilhelmina holds back the urge to scream and stomp her feet. She’s better than that. Hannibal taught her better than that.

“If you want to know about what Hannibal did to me, then ask him yourself. If you think he’s a liar, then bring me there with you, and  _ then  _ I’ll tell you everything.”

“Hannibal hasn’t mentioned you.”

Wilhelmina’s ears begin to ring.

“What… What do you mean?”

“When they captured Hannibal, he refused to say anything without a lawyer. And even when his lawyer arrived, he never mentioned you. You weren’t kept at his primary residence—the FBI only searched his other house to be thorough. Even then, the basement was hidden, locked. If Jack hadn’t been adamant about looking for every bit of evidence possible, they wouldn’t have found you. You could’ve  _ died, _ Wilhelmina. And he didn’t say a word.”

Wilhelmina stares at her. Her chest feels tight. She can hardly breathe.

“You’re lying.”

Alana’s face goes white. She looks up at Wilhelmina, eyes wide and pleading.

“Oh, God. I’m sorry, Wilhelmina. I’m sorry, I wasn’t—I wasn’t going to tell you, until later.”

Wilhelmina takes a step back.

“Why are you trying to turn me against Hannibal? What do you want from me?”

“Wilhelmina, listen to me—”

“No! You’re lying. Hannibal  _ never _ lied. I don’t believe you.”

Alana’s composure breaks. She wipes at her eyes hastily, smearing the make-up around her eyes.

“I’m sorry, Wilhelmina. I really am.”

Wilhelmina’s heart beats in her ears. She takes another step back. And another.

And then bolts.

“Wilhelmina!” Alana cries out. “Wilhelmina! Security!”

She flees, bursting through the front doors of Port Haven.

“Stop!”

She doesn’t listen. And she doesn’t look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had this fic's ending basically planned out from the very beginning. But there's one small (ish) detail that I haven't decided on yet...and that detail will determine a few things (like for example, the addition of some new tags). Since I'm still not sure which route I'm going to take, I'm not sure how long the last chapter will take. Not so long that this fic will go on indefinite hiatus or something, but just a warning: though I managed to not be late on this week's update like I thought, that might not be the case with the final chapter. It shouldn't take longer than 2 weeks, though. I'll still try to make it for the weekly update if I can, however.
> 
> Also, cursory reminder: the "Bad Ending" tag has been there from the beginning. So prepare yourselves. No matter which route I take, it isn't going to be very pretty.


	7. autonomy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: transphobia, homophobia, gangbang, dubious consent, hate crime, graphic depictions of violence, homophobic and transphobic slurs, misgendering, misogyny, bad ending, vague ending
> 
> disclaimer: this fic does not reflect my personal views.
> 
> also, i would like to thank everyone who left nice comments and stuck with me throughout this journey. it really, really meant a lot to me.  
> im not sure if this ending has quite the oomph i'd imagined it would have in my head, but regardless, it's pretty rough. take care of yourselves. if you ever feel like you need to stop reading, stop reading. 
> 
> thanks for getting this far.
> 
> love,
> 
> your author

She runs. Feet pounding the pavement, shoelaces slapping the ground. Noises, sounds, all around. The world spinning beneath her feet, turning about her head. Lights fading and flickering on. She runs until she can’t. Then she walks, stumbles on. She keeps moving, slinking between buildings and staying off the streets as much as she can, taking random turns until she’s dizzy and lost. Until she’s sure no one would have been able to follow her. Until she’s sure she won’t be able to find her way back. Night falls.

Alana’s words ring in her head. More than that, her sincere apology, her guilt. The burden of proof.

But why? Why would Hannibal abandon her? Didn’t Hannibal love her?

There was no doubt about that. Hannibal loved her. She wasn’t wrong about that.

 _Maybe that just never mattered,_ a voice hissed. _Maybe love didn’t mean anything to him._

Tears dripped down her face and she hastily wiped them away, the salt sting lighting up her cheeks and the edges of her eyes. She tugs at her hair, still messily shorn from when Dr. Sterne had hacked at it with a pair of scissors. She wishes it were long again, to give her shaking fingers something to do.

Dark has fallen. Streetlights catch on flyaway particles, glowing brighter than the washed out stars. People look at her strangely as she clutches at her own arms, blistered feet shuffling along the cracked sidewalk. Their eyes flick towards her and away, as though the very sight of her were indecent. It reminded her of the looks that the other patients at Port Haven would give her. She didn’t understand it—what was so strange about her appearance? Could they look at her and—and know? Just like that?

When Wilhelmina looked at the man who crossed the street, she saw discomfort, disgust. She saw a distaste of indecency, a mild disposition that lent itself to meek compliance and politeness. She wondered if other people could see it on her, too. If they could see Hannibal on her, if they knew she was strange and Other, if they knew that to her, the open sky was a novelty she was failing to appreciate.

She hurries along, shying away from the light. Footsteps approach her from behind, a group. She scampers down into a dark alleyway, afraid of being in their way and eager to be left alone.

The sharp, diagonal shadow of the building cuts across the wall. It bulges, shifts. The shadows of four or five other figures intercept it, crowd like scuttling ants, stretching inky black across the ground until they’ve all but darkened the mouth of the alleyway.

“Hey, faggot.”

She takes a step back.

“Where ya going?”

Wilhelmina looks behind her, backing up some more. Dead end.

They edge closer, mouths stretched into sneers. The apparent cruelty is foreign to her. Hannibal had always been elegant, precise. Principled. These men, though—their bloodlust and disdain are crude, unsightly. Potent. Their anger is so forefront, their hatred so raw. Her heart pounds in her chest, and her back hits the wall.

“You must be stupid or something, tranny. Wearing shit like that outside. Where decent folk are forced to look at you. Where kids can see you.”

“Dirty pervert like you shouldn’t even be alive.”

She’s too busy staring at her shoes to anticipate the first punch. It gets her straight in the teeth, knocking her head back against the wall. She clutches at it, the taste of blood flooding her mouth.

“Got anything to say for yourself, fucking son of a bitch?!”

Their eyes glitter strangely in the dark, narrowed dangerously. They crowd in closer. Her quiet whimper strangles itself in her throat.

 _Thwack._ Her head whips to the side. A hand around her throat, her fingers scratching at the wrist.

“Fucking disgusting.”

A fist to her soft stomach. Another glancing off her cheekbone.

They grab her and shake her and she lets out a wordless keen as her bones rattle, and then they toss her to the ground.

She curls up as they kick her. They aim for the softest parts of her, and don’t hold back. One of her ribs give in. There’s only the sound of their grunts of exertion, the impact of bruising flesh, and her soft whimpers.

She doesn’t understand. What did she do? Is this because Hannibal left her? Because no one wants her anymore? If Hannibal were here this wouldn’t have happened. If she were good enough for Hannibal to come back this wouldn’t be happening. He’d protect her. It’s her fault if he doesn’t love her anymore.

She coughs and gags on the taste of bile. She gets a kick in the teeth for her trouble.

“Got throw-up on my shoes. Fucking bitch.”

Tears leak down her face. She can’t breathe through her nose, and her chest aches with each labored inhale.

“Why?” she croaks.

One of them crouches, elbows on knees, tilted head.

“Because you’re _wrong._ You’re _sick._ Trannies like you shouldn’t even exist.”

She blinks rapidly. The cold certainty in his voice makes her want to die.

“But I can be good,” she says. “I can be really good for you. I can make you happy.”

“The fuck is he on?” one of the others asks.

“My daddy showed me how,” she murmurs, shakily moving onto her elbows. The harsh, rough floor digs into her skin. Her head feels woozy, throbbing. Blood drips down her face.

She gets on her knees, and presses her face to the ground. She reaches back to ruck up her skirts, exposing her ass. She pushes her panties down to her thighs.

Silence.

“Fuck me,” she whispers. Tears continue to drip down her face.

“Fuck me,” she begs. “Someone. Please.”

“That’s disgusting,” someone remarks. Wilhelmina’s eyes burn, but she doesn’t move. Waiting.

The man crouching in front of her fists his hand in her hair and hauls her up to her feet. She stumbles, legs still tangled up in her panties, and he slams her skull into the wall.

Once. Twice. Three times.

“Sick bastard like you thought you could seduce me with a pathetic display like that? Huh?” he hisses through gritted teeth.

He hauls her head back and slams it forward again, leaving a dark stain on the wall.

“M-my daddy said that—that I’m good at it,” she tries.

“At what?”

“Fucking.”

A susurrus of laughter.

“Your daddy, huh? Your daddy touched you as a kid?”

“He said…he said it’s all I’m good for.”

The man steps back and lets go and she stumbles, before dropping to her knees.

“No wonder you’re fucked up in the head.”

She looks up at him, blood dripping down her face from her mouth, her nose, her hairline. She reaches forward to rest her hands on his belt.

“Please,” she begs. “I can show you. I p-promise, I can be so good for you.”

The man slaps her hands away.

“I’m not a faggot like you.”

Hannibal had never used that word, but Wilhelmina can guess what it means.

“But I’m a girl,” she says, a note of desperation in her voice. Her teeth ache. She thinks some of them have been knocked loose.

The men snicker down at her.

“You wanna be a girl so bad?”

“I _am_ one.”

_I am. I am. It’s all I am. It’s all I have._

Her head pounds and she sways, nerveless fingers gripping the belt of the man in front of her as they all look at each other over her head.

“All right.” The voices wade in through the rushing tide of her pulse, sluggish. “If you wanna be a girl so bad, we’ll show you what happens to dirty little girls like you who walk around alone at night.”

Her hands are torn away. She closes her eyes and drops her jaw as far as it can go, sticking out her tongue.

“Your daddy trained you good, huh?”

A cock shoves its way forward without preamble. It’s different from Hannibal, the smell of sweat stronger. She chokes, unable to breathe through her stopped up nose. But she tries her best, letting out a strangled moan, swallowing as best as she can as her throat is battered ruthlessly. Her scalp is sore from all the tugging, and her nose aches every time it’s slammed against the man’s pelvis.

It tastes like blood.

The man comes quickly, adrenaline and rage fueling his lust. She sputters, but swallows and licks her lips. She’s tossed onto the ground and her vision whites out for a moment as her rib is jostled, but she parts her thighs and lifts her hips, spreading open whorishly upon the ground.

The next man barely gets his pants down before he’s shoving in her dry. She doesn’t get the chance to remember to relax before she’s tearing around the intrusion and she lets out a strangled scream before someone else slaps her, cutting it off.

“Got a nice ass on you at least.”

“Did daddy treat you like this, hmm? Did he beat you and force you to wear panties?”

They all laugh.

Drool and blood and phlegm drips from her parted lips, her breath rattling in her chest. Another cock forces its way down her throat and she reaches up to grab his hips. Not to resist, just to feel it as he thrusts in and out of her mouth.

“Fuck, he’s got some mouth.”

“We should thank his daddy, shouldn’t we?”

She swallows and moans around the cock, then chokes as someone else kicks her in the stomach again. Her chest seizes and she tries to gasp, fingers scrabbling against the ground, but they’re holding her down, fucking her, kicking her, beating her.

* * *

She might have lost consciousness, briefly. The world is moving shadows, deep crimsons and faded blacks. She coughs up more blood.

“Whore.”

“Slut.”

Their voices ring in her ears, faint. Like far-off bells.

They laugh at her pain. Even through the dark, through her swollen eyelids she can see their smiles. That’s good, right? That means she did something right.

“What do you say when a man gives you his cock?” Hannibal asks.

 _Thank you,_ she tries to say. She hopes they hear her.

Everything hurts. But that’s okay.

How she feels doesn’t matter. What matters is that they come.

And they did. Cum is splattered all over her ass and thighs, in her hair, on her face. She lies curled up on the ground, too tired to even shiver. The cold seeps in through her skin, down into her bones. She’s naked, her dress lying in shreds around her. The men are gone.

Slowly, the sky begins to pink with the first blush of dawn.

She reaches down between her legs, and feels where she’s torn open, used. Gaping.

_Are you proud of me, Hannibal?_

She smiles.

And for the first time, in a long time, Wilhelmina Lecter felt at peace.


End file.
